


Idée Fixe

by skyjoos



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Age of Consent in NY is 17, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Dark, Dark Tony Stark, Drama, Kidnapping, M/M, Mental Instability, Murder, Obsession, Past Child Abuse, Peter is 17, Plot Twists, Secrets, Slow Burn, Stalking, Thriller, Tony is 26, Unreliable Narrator, You AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2019-10-23 04:13:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 61,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17676248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyjoos/pseuds/skyjoos
Summary: Tony Stark is a charming twenty-something living in New York who instantly falls in love when the young Peter Parker walks into his bookshop. Tony has fallen into a deep obsession with the high school senior but not everything in Peter's life is exactly what Tony is made to believe.Inspired by YOU - Netflix series and Caroline Kepnes novel.





	1. 1

There’s something about the smell of a new book that reels you in. Once you’ve smelled it, it’s over. Your face will be shoved back into that book to smell it again and again. I get the same sense when I rewatch self-indulgent porn or softly pet a cat: the feeling of repetitiveness that, for a brief moment, is calming. It’s what I’m doing when you walk in.

The bell above the door to the bookstore chimes it’s alerting tune. I can hear it whispering to me, “He’s dangerous, Tony. A drug.” I let the vibrations pass through me as you carefully walk down the aisle. I know you’re here for a reason. No one comes into a dirty, old bookstore to just look around. You either need something for school, have had your eye on a book for a while or you need a gift for a somewhat distant relative you see twice a year. I quickly close the book and carefully place it back on the non-fiction shelf.

You walk with purpose, but it’s slow and methodical. Like you’re scared of hurting someone or being hurt yourself. You’re wearing faded blue jeans that are a size too small at the waist but half a size too large at the knees. The denim clings to your delicately framed hips but sags at your legs. Your shirt looks like something you’ve taken care of for a long time. It’s a faded but well designed school t-shirt supporting a logo I’ve seen used on signs promoting the Kleever Middle School KEPO program. A dark brown jacket hangs, no nearly droops, around your frame. Your shoes are much less in the same state: black and worn down converse with greyed laces. But it’s not your attire I’m fond of. In fact, nothing about the way you dress is appealing. It’s the angular yet soft face. The most gorgeous hazel eyes that I swear even from all the way over here, I can see tiny yellow specks in. Your delicate brown hair, cut just short enough to see your neck but long enough to give you a boyish look.

I refasten the strands of my apron and slowly walk in your direction. You’ve left your jacket open, which is a sign you’re willing to talk about the more personal things in your life with most people. You proudly wear your embarrassing middle school shirt and don’t even bother to zip it away. You want people to see the shirt. You want someone to say, “Oh, Kleever! My daughter goes there. Great school!” And you’d nod and say something like, “I know. It’s a really fantastic school.” And then the small talk would be over and you’d get to revel in it for a few moments before the stranger would walk away, never to be seen again. And you like that, don’t you? You like having someone’s attention even if it’s just for a minute. Well, I’m right here and you’re everything that’s on my mind right now.

You slowly glide to the fiction section. A small display is right in front for the latest Stephen King horror-thriller bullshit but you keep on going, not even acknowledging what is supposed to be the greatest horror novelist of all time. You head into an aisle labeled ‘M-O’. I make my way into the aisle ahead of it, ‘J-L’. Through the assorted books, I see you walk until you reach the O’s at the end of the shelf. You raise your right index finger and it glides across the names of authors you don’t care about. You reach into the first row of O’s and pull out a book. I can’t make out the title or cover with you facing away from me, but your stance gives me a great view of your ass. If only you weren’t so fashionably unaware and chose form fitting clothes.

I walk back to the counter, hoping my snooping has gone undetected. I try to watch your through the various rows of unaligned books but you keep popping in and out of frame. I try to remember every detail of your body, your face, the way the corners of your mouth turn when you see something familiar on my shelves. My day dreaming is interrupted when Jason, my much younger assistant manager, claps a hand on my shoulder.

“Hey, boss,” Jason says, “There was some kid on the phone earlier saying he preordered a copy of ‘Hidden Bodies’ and shipped it here.”

I shake my head as I stare at you. I almost blatantly ignore Jason until I actually process what he said. “We don’t even offer preorders here.”

Jason grunts, “That’s what I said. But he kept swearing he did and told me to hand the phone to you.”

I wave a hand dismissively. “Tell him I’m busy,” I say, “Tell him to call back after open hours.”

Jason goes to say something but decides it wasn’t worth wasting his breath on. He nods and leaves, his tall frame snakes out from behind the counter and goes into a random aisle. I lose place of Jason as his image is replaced with yours. Your eyes meet his and a small smile forms as you walk past each other. My heart swells as you walk closer and closer to the front counter. I’m almost too excited to even put into words how beautiful your smile is. My brain runs miles and jumps over hurdles until all I can think about is you.

“Hi,” you say.

It’s beautiful and inviting and your voice sounds so good. I can't help but stare at your lips as they part to reveal perfect teeth that are encapsulated by your smile. I try not to act like a creep and offer my best smile, averting my eyes away from your mouth.

“Hello. Did you find everything okay?” I hate every word out of my mouth. ‘Did you find everything okay?’ Why am I acting like a casual employee of a dirty bookstore? I should impress you, leave you wanting more because so far it’s all you’ve left me wanting.

“Yeah actually, I did,” you say, “Been looking to buy this for a while now.”

You place a copy of Joyce Carol Oates work ‘Them’ on the counter and tapped the paperback edition with your finger. I smile and slide the book across the counter to scan it and run it across the magnet. I look up at you as you stare at my hand holding the book.

“Ah, Joyce Carol Oates. A classic and beautiful novelist, too bad she’s not very well known.”

You nod and gesture towards the book still held in my hands. “Yeah. I read ‘Blonde’ for english last year and she’s a great author. I’ve been told ‘Them’ is even better. Ever read it?”

I smile and nod. Oates is one of my favorite older novelists. You have good taste. However you did follow the suggestions of others which tells me you’re more of an introvert than you’d like people to think.

“I have. I’ve most of her works, in fact. ‘Them’ is definitely a classic. You know what it’s about, right?” I ask.

You grin, “It’s about a young woman and her two children. It starts from after the Great Depression, when her children are babies, up to the Black Power Movement, when her children are in their thirties. The author used a real person’s story as her inspiration.”

I nod as you talk. Your response was calculated and dry, like you expected someone to ask what the book was about. I bet on your way here you thought of all the clever ways you could retell Maureen’s struggle without spoiling anything. Your cocky smile is too endearing to be mad at. I nod and spread my arms out playfully, like your knowledge impresses me.

“Look at you! Must be a real Oates enthusiast.”

I leave it open, give you the chance to lie about your never ending knowledge on an author who made over sixty books nearly sixty years ago. But your head shakes and you smile another brilliantly candid beam.

“No,” you laugh, “Just read one and thought I might as well give her a try. And I totally looked up the summary on Goodreads. My friend, Ned, is really crazy about this book and the rest of series. But he told me to start with this.”

You’ve truly surprised me. You didn’t even take the chance to lie when I practically threw it at you. You back down and told the truth.  Everything I need to know about who you are is in the way you talk about your friend, this Ned character, who seems to mean a lot to you. You look like you almost jumped at the chance to buy what he recommended. You’re considerate, probably overly considerate, and your friend’s words mean more than your own. I laugh and place the book into a plastic bag.

“Well, it sounds like your friend has good taste. If you want my suggestion, I’d get ‘Wonderland’ after this. Great read about a guy who grew up in the Great Depression with a troubled past. Dad killed everyone in his family, was in and out of foster homes for years. He knocks a girl up as a teen and doesn’t learn he has a daughter until she’s fifteen years old. Problem is, it’s the sixties now and every fifteen year old is getting drugged out of their minds. The girl’s an addict and it’s his job to be the father he never had for her. Really touching work. If you like this, you’ll love it.”

I breathe out, hoping my long rant didn’t fall on bored ears. But I know by the excited, almost mesmerized look on your face that you’re eating up every word. You nod enthusiastically.

“I totally have to check that out now. Weird, though. A lot of her work is about the Great Depression. Don’t you think that would get boring after a while?” You ask.

And, oh, you have no idea how right you even are. Oates’s work on and about the Great Depression were and still are great, the first twenty times. After the twenty-first book people were bored with the same story being spun over and over again. So, Oates changed her narrative to horror and found her real calling. Too bad it was short-lived. She ended up only being a horror novelist for a few years but in that time made my absolute favorites that I would never recommend to you. I could’ve recommended you ‘Zombie’, a book that documents the beginnings of a man’s descent into madness as he realizes that the only thing that makes him feel joy is when he rapes and murders young boys. But that seems a little inappropriate given you are the near perfect description of the main character’s favorite boy: Squirrel. Squirrel was the man’s neighborhood paperboy and he stalked him for months while he killed other boys less worthy. He didn’t dare touch Squirrel until he thought he had mastered the art of turning young men into mindless sex zombies, very Dahmer esque. You would hate it.

So instead I shrug casually and smile, “I’m sure it did. She stopped writing them in the nineties and doesn’t write much now. Probably got burnt out.”

You wince when I say ‘burnt out’. You think it goes unnoticed but it certainly doesn’t. Nothing you do wouldn’t amuse me. But you try to hide it by nodding as you bring out your wallet. Shit. I forgot that I’m supposed to be selling you books.

“Ah, that’ll be twenty-six eighty-four,” I say.

You dive into your wallet as you make a small laugh. “Jesus. How are bookstores not dead yet? So much money for one book. Especially in the age of the Kindle.”

Thank God you’re an attention whore and can’t wait to continue conversation because I had no smooth transitions from thinking about how much you look like the boy that fictitiously died by the hands of a psycho with a drill to the head to book talk. I try to find the words you want me to say, so I do.

“Bookstores have charm. Even over-priced, Starbucks infested Barnes and Noble's are more appealing than electronically ordering a book you can’t hold psychically. It’s all in the aesthetic. Sure, there’s a reason Kindles exist; for over saturated hippies that probably don’t actually read books unless their memoirs on the rich and famous celebrities who didn’t write the books to begin with. Bookstores are for readers. Real ones, anyways.”

There’s so much you want to say, I can see it. You smile and is that blush? Are you seriously flirting with a twenty-something in a bookstore wearing a middle school t-shirt? You want me to catch a charge and oh God, it’s working.

You flash a bright smile and hand me a debit card, “That’s a beautiful way of seeing it.”

I take the card. Thank God for your overprotective parents and their refusal to give a teen cash when he lives in New York City. The card is blue and metallic but that’s not what I’m looking for. I see the engraved letters etched into the plastic and smile: Peter B. Parker.

“I’m glad there’s still hope for young people like you. I was worried everyone your age had stopped reading, Peter.”

What the fuck was that? ‘Young people like you, everyone your age.’ He already knows I’m way too old to be having this discussion with him, so why I am saying shit? But God the way your name sounds on my tongue. _Peter._ You were made for me, Peter, you truly were. I slide the debit card in the slot behind the counter. It reads as accepted and I hand back the card.

You laugh, “I get that a lot. But it’s nice to hear to it from nice guys at bookstores and not old uncles I barely talk to, Mister …,” your head moves as you tilt to see my name tag, “T. Stark?”

Yes! I’m a nice guy who works at a bookstore, not a creepy pervy relative. I smile in triumph, maybe my age has nothing to do with it. But my name sounds more like a question on your lips. At this exact moment I’m pissed that Harold thought having only the first initial on the employe name tags was a remotely good idea. I scoff in amusement.

“Sorry, it’s actually Tony. Yeah my boss is a bit formal.”

“And here I was thinking you were Mister Bailey,” you giggle like a kid and Jesus, Peter, this is why we absolutely should not be seen talking to each other.

I shake my head and chuckle with you, “'Bailey’s Books' is in no relation to T. Stark, but he is in relation to Harold Bailey.” I stare at you for a second, waiting for a response and when you give none I say, “He’s the actual boss. Owns the place, I’m his right-hand man.”

You make the ever-so funny ‘ooh’ sound and I laugh as you place the card back into your wallet. You take the bag and wrap it in your hand a few times and smile. Wait, no. You’re already leaving. Shit. You raise your hand in a wave as you turn away.

“Well, thanks again Mister Not-Bailey,” you joke.

There's no way I'm going to let this be our last encounter, Peter. You walked into my bookstore, looking like that, and no. You do not get to walk away from me forever.

“No problem, Peter.”


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony fixates on every aspect of Peter's social media and finds out that the teen isn't as innocent as he seems.

I hate your generation, Peter, I really do. But I thank God for your generation’s dependency on social media. It’s so easy to find you. You practically gave me everything I needed: Your name. I go home atfer working my shift at Bailey’s and search you first on FaceBook. There’s twenty-four Peter Parker’s in New York. But I find your profile after three minutes. Your profile picture is a cheeky selfie of you in a mirror that’s rimmed with smeared dirt. You bothered to try to clean the thing, which means you care about your appearance to the outside world and oh, fuck Peter you really care. You care too much.

 Your FaceBook is averagely active; you post maybe one photo a month and share a few videos of BuzzFeed Crafts and Tasty recipes a week. But the real goldmine is your Instagram which you’ve linked through your FaceBook. And through your Instagram you link your Twitter. You really want people to find you, don’t you Peter?

 Your instagram is very active with a post every week on average and you seem to love the Instagram story feature. I have to create an account to see them but it’s so worth it. Seeing you post morning selfies and your walks to school makes my day full of you, as if it wasn’t already. There’s hundreds of pictures dating all the way back to your awkward freshmen year. Most of them are group pictures or pictures you took while out with friends. You have a solid group of friends, Peter.

 I find Ned, the boy who told you how great Oates was. He’s a pudgy, brown skinned boy that you seem very close to. There’s photos of you two at club meets, on vacation, at dinner, on school trips. A few other people circulate in your life but non are as prominent as Ned, who is clearly your best friend. And something about this deeply hurts. You love this boy - you’ve known him your whole life, how could you not? - But you give him so much attention and it hurts. I know I shouldn’t be getting jealous but I am, Peter.

 Nothing on your Instagram or FaceBook raises any red flags but a trip to your Twitter changes everything. You. Are. Constantly. On. Twitter.

 It’s not even as old as your other social media, the date underneath your bio reads ‘Joined August 2017.’ But Jesus Christ, Peter, you’re on this thing twenty-four fucking seven. Constantly retweeting, following trends, tweeting about everything and anything. You have nearly four thousand liked tweets and you’re following thousands of celebrities, writers, poets, reality TV stars, “influencers” and anyone who has #F4F in their bio.

 It shouldn’t surprise me. Your generation loves this shit, millions of you kids are zoned out on your phones and ignoring the world. But this is excessive, Peter. You crave attention. You’re desperate for it and your Twitter is a cry for help. But don’t worry, I’m here. I can see exactly what it is you need and how your Twitter addiction is affecting you. I refresh the feed and surprisingly - or unsurprisingly - you’ve just tweeted.

_JimJam’s Pizza is better than sex #JimJams #NYClife_

 My first thought is to make a mental note of how much you love greasy, overpriced New York style pizza but my thoughts are immediately taken to _you’ve had sex?_ Which shouldn’t be a surprise but it is. You’re only seventeen says your Instagram bio and nothing on your social media shows signs that you’re dating someone. I couldn’t help myself, I looked up your username @PrettyInPeter (cute, by the way) on Google. The first link was your Instagram, then your Twitter, and then your Reddit.

 Your Reddit, likely not something you’d ever want your friends to see, is innocent at first. You post stupid questions on r/ExplainLikeImFive and comment on r/Nosleep. But what intrigues me is your frequent use of r/Roleplay. The first post I see is a semi-detailed plot where you’re looking for a partner to pretend to be your boyfriend (Thank God you’re gay) and, oh. You want a guy to rough fuck you into your couch and spank you and that’s not at all what I thought kids were into these days. There’s a moment where I’m disgusted. These are things I would never do to someone even if they begged but with you they seem so erotically intoxicating. Then I’m turned on and I turn over in bed and jerk off to the thought of you bending over and begging for it and begging for me and I cum into my hand.

 So you’re still a virgin who just fantasizes about being controlled. You don’t know the first thing about sex and if you did you wouldn’t be comparing gross pizza to it. I scroll through your Twitter for a while and think about jerking off again to a few of your Instagram pictures but don’t. I went back to prowling through your social media which is fortunately and unfortunately public. I don’t even have to be your FaceBook friend to see what school you go to, which is Midtown High. And a deeper dive reveals you live in a townhouse on Bank Street which your aunt can’t afford.

 Your aunt is May Parker and the two of you live alone. She works as a nurse so you’re home alone often. And I know because now I’m staring at you from across your street, on the porch of another townhouse. I had to hit up the thrift store to buy new outfits that made me fit in with the upper-middle class folk that can afford to live on fucking Bank Street. I’m in a grey and white tracksuit equipped with my earbuds and sunglasses, as if I was just another wealthy millennial without a care in the world as he jogs up and down his expensive neighborhood.

 Your aunt left ten minutes ago and I’m assuming she left after your greasy pizza dinner together. I scroll through old tweets of yours to find out more about your place, which ironically has no curtains.

  _My house is a shoebox. But shoeboxes are cool and so is @BellevueBasedNYC. Not everyone can have an awesome nurse-aunt like me._

 After taking a glance at the Bellevue user, it’s obvious your aunt can’t afford this place for a reason: Bellevue Hospital is pretty shitty in terms of service and struggling nursing school students can apply to live in their Bellevue provided houses for free with the cost of lower wages. It’s a pretty genius idea. The workplace of your aunt is also technically her landlord. So if she slips up at work, it’s bye-bye BellevueBasedNYC and hello homelessness, so she has to be on her best behavior at work and you have to not be a fuckup. Oh, how I hate corporate America.

 I lament as I watch your shoebox of a free house while I drink stale coffee. It tastes gross and I feel out of place in the uppity part of New York and my tracksuit is scratchy at the armpits. My heart leaps when you walk by the front-room window. You’re wearing a white t-shirt and blue sweatpants without underwear. And I can tell because the pants ride too low on your hips and there’s no underwear waistband. You disappear as quickly as you appeared and I’m left to think about what you’re doing. It’s only Saturday night so there’s no class and you’re a smart student according to your Midtown grades so chances are there’s some big test coming up that you’re studying for.

 I smile and take another sip of the coffee, avoiding eye contact with your neighbors as an elderly couple passes. It’s dark and already ten at night. You reappear and sit on your couch, facing a television. It’s not on though and you look down and scroll through your phone. I instantly check your social media and see you’ve tweeted.

  _It hurts being right about something you’ve been dreading all week. Bad night. #deferred_

 I look up at you and your face looks pained. I refresh the tweet and see Ned has already responded to it. @TheRealNeddd replies.

  _Everything alright?? Is this about MIT? Plz hmu asap, pete._

 I know you see the reply. You shake your head and after refreshing the feed again, your tweet is gone. You deleted the tweet even after your best friend tried reaching out. I take it that my brainiac applied early decision to MIT and got deferred. Which explains the comfort clothes, comfort pizza, and the sappy tweet. I want to hold you so bad. I want you to cry it out and have me be there to tell you there’s always regular decision. I want you to shake your head and hold onto my stupid tracksuit tighter.

 I hope that soon you’ll feel comfortable with me you’ll post tweets about me. You’d tweet about me anonymously, and all your friends would be jealous because you’d have a secret boyfriend that treats you so good that you don’t want to ruin the magic by even saying my name out loud. Hopefully Ned will respond with his usual supportive, happy tone despite begging you for answers. Maybe you’d tweet something like.

  _Bookstore romance? Sign me up #BookstoreLove #BooksAreForTheLoved #WheresmylovewhenIneedhimand_

 My innocent thoughts are interrupted by some asshole cabbie who lays on the horn as he drops someone off outside your place. A brown skinned guy, younger than me but older than you, hops out and cards a hand through unkempt, dark brown hair. He has too much hair. He smiles at the cabbie but doesn’t mean it and shuts the door of the cab. He walks up right to your door like he owns it and you open the door and smile. Before I can wrap my head around this, your hands are in his hair and pulling him towards you. He takes you in, no he fucking devours you whole, your lips pressed so tightly against his that I get sick to my stomach.

 The door closes behind you as you pull him into the free townhouse your aunt isn’t home to enjoy. There’s a terrible silence for a moment but suddenly your back is pressed against the couch and he’s on top of you. I hurriedly jog across the street, letting my tasteless coffee splatter to the ground. I know what’s about to happen next. I can see you as I cross the street stripping and him laughing like he’s won the fucking lottery.

 But I need to hear it.

 I walk up to your door, knowing you’ll be too distracted to notice. I press my ear against the door and hear it. There’s moaning and I hear the disgusting, almost meaty sound of flesh against flesh as he spanks you.

 “Sorry, Daddy! I’m sorry!”

 “Say it again,” his voice is all rings of hell rolled into one and I want to vomit.

 “I’m sorry, daddy.”

 “You’re a bad boy, Peter.”

 “I know. I’m a bad boy,” you echo.

 “You want a spanking, don’t you? Filthy fucking slut,” he growls.

 “I want a spanking.”

 He’s hurting you and you’re crying but you _like it_. And he likes hurting you and making you feel like you’re nothing but a plaything for this arrogant scumbag that can make dick appointments on whims even though your hearts broken over MIT. I have to walk back to the other side of the street. This is risky and you know it but no one will file a report to the police even with your living room window wide open. This is Bank Street for fuck’s sake, Peter. I watch him fuck you with no passion, no fire, no love, just fear and control and hurt. And this is physically painful to watch.

 I spectate as he finishes up inside of you - you don’t cum - and uses a discarded washcloth on your table as a cum rag. You sit up on the couch and look so fucking sad and used. I stare and feel like crying as you let him steal a cigarette from your aunt’s purse. He goes to the kitchen to smoke and leaves you alone. I remember a tweet you posted two months ago.

  _Let’s all be honest and admit that literature is pointless without a reader, an audience. No story should be left unread and no reader should be left unentertained. #TBH_

Don’t you understand, Peter? You were talking to me before you even met me and this is fate. Mr. Cum n’ Go drags off the cigarette and rushes out of the door, his stupid fucking hair flops and sways in the night breeze. He just used you and you know it and he’s not your fucking _boyfriend._ He leaves. I leave. You need a shower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't forget to leave a comment! I'm going to try to update at least once a week but the goal is to post more.


	3. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony finally gets into Peter's house but his visit creates more questions than answers.

After the scene from Saturday, I stay a bit farther away from your house than I mean to. I can’t run the risk that someone from your street noticed me, so I start wearing more of the pretentious, yet inconspicuous outfits from the thrift store. Tracksuits and jumpers and sweaters your average jogging twenty-something would wear. You go back to school on Monday and your aunt leaves soon after. She has unpredictable shifts (“Duty calls, Pete,” she says to you on her way out) because of Bellevue and their free housing. It’s not like she can say no, they pay for your house and she knows she can’t start slacking or else you won’t have a house to stay in and you wouldn’t be able to continue going to Midtown High.

Midtown, not my alma matter (not that I had one to begin with), is a pretentious STEM school with the best science and tech courses in the state. It’s not technically private but it’s application only. Meaning rich parents shove their less-than-stellar kids into applying and after the school considers how much money the parents make, they let the kid in, in hopes of selling more shirts and bumper stickers at PTA meetings. You actually got _into_ the school on a scholarship which is more than half the kids in your graduating class can say. So did Ned, on a less noteworthy but still remarkable scholarship.

You’re both incredible students according to the school’s directory and after searching ‘Parker’ on the website it’s clear you’re even involved. You’re president of debate club, president of mathlete club, member of book club, member of student government, and student coach of intermediate basketball. You’re way too involved and at first this worries me. But then I imagine how much you’d appreciate someone to take you to your meetings and hold your hand before debate competitions and tell you how smart you are. You’re recognized in your school but not enough. An article written by a student reads.

_Top ten of graduating class speak out against bullying_

I scroll until I get to your name. _Peter Parker, 6th in class, adds to the discussion by promising to create new debate question aimed at promoting awareness to bullying in American high schools._

And that’s it. No quote, no picture. Just your promise and it moves on to the fifth in class and how they’d like to install confession boxes around school to encourage students to speak out when they see bullying anonymously. Another search shows you in your junior year with another student written article titled.

_Junior class valedictorian, Peter Parker, becomes New York student member of the board._

You were student member of the board and valedictorian only five short months ago. What happened to being first in class? Why aren’t you mentioned on the New York Board of Education website? Nothing I search comes up with results. All I see is the school’s apparently outdated article with your picture. You’re smiling and shaking the Superintendent’s hand and your principals smile behind you and everyone looks so happy. I double check your social medias. Nothing anywhere says you were ever on the board of education and there’s no posts by the board’s official Instagram to prove it either.

I can’t help but feel like there’s a problem. But I know I won’t get to know the answer until you tell me yourself and we’re nowhere near that stage. Tonight's debate from four to seven. You leave your house at three and are dressed in your school’s grey uniform and I’ve never felt more like a creep in my life. My dick twitches and I have to pretend I’m absorbed in my phone to keep from exploding. You rush down the street and turn left. I know the age of consent in New York is seventeen - which I found out after a quick google search after I jerked off to your Instagram pictures - but you wearing a literal schoolboy outfit coupled with the image of you begging that douche to spank you while calling him daddy is not helping my image here.

I swipe up to delete my tabs opened on your Twitter and call the New York gas and electric company. I report a gas like smell coming from two-seven-six Bank Street and also tell them I’m your aunt's boyfriend who lost his keys and I’m worried something will happen overnight. It takes twenty minutes for a sad, drained looking gas company worker to get here. I stand with arms crossed at the porch and feign concern. I knew he was going to open the door for me, even if he didn’t believe I was your aunt's boyfriend he still would because he hates his job and I can see it on his face.

He pushes the door open and sighs as he tells me he’s going to check the boiler down in the cellar. I thank him and close the door behind us. I have ten, maybe fifteen minutes, tops before he realizes there’s no gas leak and I’m just a paranoid boyfriend. I run up to your room, ignoring the dreaded couch that probably still smells like sex. I take a moment to look around before beginning my search. It’s beautiful, and it reeks of you. You’re in pictures on the wall above your bed with friends and teammates and the remaining top ten. They’re hung by string and clothespins. Some are printed, others are polaroids. Dozens are of you and Ned, and there’s another very prominent young lady next to you two all the time.

She’s pretty, with fiery black hair and light skin. It’s clear she’s not like you and Ned. She wears Apple watches, sleek designer clothes, and real jewelry around her neck and wrists. She sticks out and I’m taken aback by just how many pictures there are of you and this girl. She’s nowhere to be seen on your Instagram or Twitter. I ignore the urge to dig further and look for what I came here for.

I need to know if you think about me, Peter. You never mention the hot bookstore clerk on social media and I can only hope you have a folder somewhere in your computer about me. But there’s none. I find more pictures of you and your friends, graded essays, and drafts of short stories you’re working on but nothing about me. I open your browser and copy your email into my phone. At least I have this, and at least your computer isn’t password protected.

“Hey, there’s no leak. But call if there’s any problems,” says the disgruntled gas company worker.

“Yeah, thanks again!” I call from your room. I hear the door slam and I smile.

I open a document titled ‘Will’s World.’ It’s a short story about a guy named Will who goes to Ikea and gets lost. He cries out for help but no one comes and he wanders the empty store for days. There’s a part about him eating all of the meatballs at the food court and realizing he has nothing left to survive off of. He weeps on a Swedish couch for a while before waking up to a world where emotion is outlawed. (You italicized _outlawed_ which is adorable) He tries to tell people in this Ikea that in his world people can laugh and cry freely and no one gets in trouble for it. But he’s met with screaming Ikea customers who drag him to a dark room where he can “laugh and cry freely all he wants” and the doors slams on him. It’s insinuated he died in the room with the last line being.

_Will cried until there was nothing left to cry about because life gets the better of everyone. Even the Ikea customers in their emotionless world. Even Will in his emotionally one._

It’s comical at first and then bitter and dark. I worry about you, Peter. This is clearly the story of someone who doesn’t understand themselves or their writing. There’s more just like it. One about a woman who wakes up and realizes she’s been cryogenically frozen for fifty years and her children are old and dying. They die in the end and the woman cries over the time lost and it’s implied she kills herself. Another story, the only one not finished of the bunch, is about a pair of twins separated at birth. They live identical but separate lives until they meet on their fifteenth birthday at the same ice cream parlor. The parents let the twins get close until one develops a strange, almost disturbing obsession with his sister. It’s hinted that he might be kidnapping girls that look like her. But it ends abruptly with no finality. All of these stories have no real ending. It’s _implied_ that Will died, the woman killed herself, and the twin lost his mind. And they’re all dark and not something previous valedictorians would write.

I have to close the Word documents and move on. I go back to the pictures and there’s more of that dark haired girl. She’s unsmiling and something about her not-smile will haunt me tonight I just know it. I hate looking at these so I shut the laptop and stand up. I go over to your nightstand and laying on top is a journal, _jackpot._ I grab it and flip through. You dated a guy in your sophomore year who had already graduated named Charlie. He was nice and treated you right according to your journal. But he got into college and moved across state lines. You broke it off with him and went on being Midtown High’s valedictorian while he struggled through art school. I look up Charlie on FaceBook and see you’re still friends with him. He flunked out of art school and lives in Philadelphia pushing weed and lives with four other roommates. A total loser.

I keep reading your journal and realize you don’t write often, maybe once a month at best. There’s nothing about the guy that came over to fuck you this weekend and given Charlie’s profile picture, I know it’s not him. I flip to the next page and see a huge time gap. It goes from March to October. Nothing about your most recent summer or the end of your junior year. I read the latest entry and hope it has something to do with me. There’s nothing and I frown. Just rants about tests and meetings and drama at school. I sigh and place the book back on the table.

On your nightstand is a framed picture of people at what looks like a party. I pick it up and see your aunt laughing next to an older man who has your hair and eyes. He’s clutching a woman in a red dress who has your nose and your perfect smile. In her arms is you. You’re three years old at most and wearing a blue polo and beige khakis. Another man in a button down is playfully ruffling your hair and smiling at the camera. The setting is clearly formal but everyone seems to be laughing and having a good time. I figure the adults I don’t know are your parents and the other man is maybe a family friend. I peel the photo frame off of the picture and slide the picture out. On the back is a date and a few names.

_Ricks’s Engagement Party! 9/17/2004 Ben, Peter, Mary, Rick & May. _

I guess the order of names is also the order of people from left to right. So the man playing with your hair is Ben, Mary is your mother, and Rick is your father. Your parents must have just gotten engaged. I slip the picture back into its frame and place it back.

You’re a puzzle, Peter. And thankfully I like puzzles, or else I would’ve left your house in annoyance and confusion. I walk to the farthest wall from your bed and glance at your posters of movies, video games, and art. I walk to the end of the wall and read the large whiteboard calendar. On the sides of the whiteboard are small areas of corkboard and dozens of pins are stuck holding pictures, book club bookmarks, numbers, and at the very end. Oh. I pull off the stack of cards from the blue pin and read them. Three all stacked together. The first one is a picture of your mother with the dates ‘1/23/1976 - 1/06/2005’ and a catholic prayer I recognize from Harold’s old copy of the bible. Your father’s is next and the dates ‘10/12/1973 - 1/06/2005’ are under his picture. The last one is the man from the picture ruffling your hair. The dates are ‘8/30/1975 - 5/14/2011’ and a small blurb underneath his picture reads ‘ _gone to heaven with his father, mother, and brother Richard Parker._ ’ They’re all dead. Your family, which I thought had left you with the aunt because they were fuckups (I mean, it is New York after all) are all dead.

I stick the obituaries back on the corkboard and read the rest of your calendar.

_Monday October 8th - Debate @ 4 - 7_

_Wednesday October 10th - Basketball meeting @ 3 / Therapist appointment_

_Thursday October 11th - AP Calc test / SGA meeting @ 3_

_Friday October 12th - Greenpoint performance @ 9_

I sigh and thank God you have a therapist. That’s a lot of heart break for a kid to handle. Your mother and father gone in the same day, which I can only assume was some terrible accident. And then your uncle who clearly treated you like a son dies a few years later. And now it’s just you and your aunt and that’s all that’s left of the Parker clan. My poor, broken boy. No wonder all of your stories are depressing and don’t have endings. Your life has been the same way. Your families lives ended without really ending. Your therapist would have a fucking field day if she saw your short stories and your aunt would probably make you start going twice a week instead of once. I look at the calculus test you have in a few days and almost write ‘good luck!’ with the marker but then you’ll know someone was in your room and we can’t have that.

I reread the board and notice that Friday you’re going to Greenpoint. I curse out loud as I look at the date. Greenpoint is a poetry club where kids go to read sad stories about their angst and get drunk off pickle juice infused whiskey and they even fucking _snap_ instead of clapping. And of course you’re going to Greenpoint on your father’s birthday and you’ll probably read some fucked up story about him or worse, you’ll read one of your short stories on the laptop. And I cannot have you embarrassing yourself like this, Peter. I take a picture of the board. As soon as I slip my phone back into my pocket I hear your voice.

"Hello?"

Shit. You are definitely home early and just heard my camera shutter from downstairs. I rip open one of your dresser drawers and take the first pair of underwear I see - I’m not leaving without a momento - and shove them into my pocket. I rush to the bathroom adjacent your room and heave open the window. I look down and see the alley below and hope that when I push myself out I’ll land in your garbage can.

You’re right, Peter. Your house is a fucking shoebox.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to leave comments! They're my favorite things in the world and reading them is the best way to get me to write faster. I really hope you guys are enjoying active uploads but shorter chapters.


	4. 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony follows Peter to Greenpoint and realizes that Peter's life is crumbling before him and he needs to pick up the pieces.

I hate Greenpoint. It’s too dim and the beer is overpriced and there’s only two stalls in the bathrooms. But I’m here because you’re here, Peter. You’re here about to make fool of yourself and I’m trying to save you. Just like Monday when I fell out of your window because I was trying to get to know you so I could save you. It makes no sense now but one day it will and we’ll tell our kids how we met and how I loved you at first sight. We’ll skip the part where I broke into your house and stole a pair of your underwear.

My love is so strong that I’m willing to sit in the world’s worst bar watching drunken patron after patron read poems and stories about death or heartbreak or both. I’m sitting two tables behind you and your friends Ned and Harry who are not excited as they should be to be in a bar at only seventeen. They’re lucky there isn’t a bouncer or a bartender here who gives a shit. If the place gets caught, fuck it. They already hate their jobs might as well take the entire bar down with them. I settle in and a waitress asks me if I want a fucking whiskey with pickle juice and I decline.

Some jackass on stage finishes his reading of a Frost poem (yes, you’re in that kind of establishment willingly and it’s terrifying) and the MC reads off your name. Harry, an older boy who graduated from Midtown last year and is going to community college until he has enough money to go to some liberal arts school out west, eggs you on and practically pushes you out of your chair. Ned smiles at you as you instinctively look back for reassurance. People snap and you walk on stage. You’re wearing black jeans that are ripped at the knees and a red t-shirt clings to your torso. You pull the brown jacket closer to you as you grip a piece of paper.

I have to still myself before I run out on stage and beg you to not do this. I can hear Harry sighing as the microphone is adjusted to meet your height by the MC.

“Do you think this will be a weekly thing before he realizes no one cares? Like maybe this is a phase or something,” Harry says.

Ned shrugs and looks up at you with a similar expression I’m wearing; worry. “I’m not sure. But I know this stuff means a lot to him, and it’s his dad’s birthday. So lay it is easy, Harry.”

Harry throws his arms up defensively. “I know! That’s why I thought we came here: to say ‘fuck dead parents!’ and get shitfaced while making fun of hippies who think poems are art. Not to sit here and pretend like any of this shit is good.”

Harry’s been your friend since your sophomore year and if there’s one person who lives on social media more than you, it’s him. His Instagram is almost trying to persuade people into thinking he has a life. There’s just too many parties, boat trips, brunches, and vacations to believe that it’s all real. A recent post promoting protein shakes from a shady online company confirms my thoughts on Harry: he’s an “influencer.” Which is a word I hate and that I had to learn thanks to you, Peter.

I hate Harry but he has a point: this is pointless and you’re just making yourself look bad. Even Ned is worried and he’s supposed to be your support, your crutch.

“Is MJ coming?” Ned asks.

I can hear Harry physically roll his eyes when he says, “Don’t speak of she who shall not be named.”

I think for a second back to your room and the pictures on your wall of that mysterious, dark, brooding girl. I want to ask them if her and this MJ are the same person but I can’t comprise everything for that.

“And seriously. Is he really going to read the ‘Will’s World’ story? They’re going to eat him alive.These assholes think anything written in first person perspective is trash and they’d suck e.e. Cumming’s dick if they had the chance,” Harry throws back a whiskey shot and grimances.

You’re reading ‘Will’s World.’ Of course you are. I silently curse to myself as Ned turns his head in shock and stares at Harry.

“Wait, he’s reading fucking ‘ _Will’s World_ ’? Who told him that was a good idea? That’s his worst one,” Ned shakes his head and stares at you.

So both of your friends are shitty and you don’t even know how much they don’t like you. Ned doesn’t dislike you, but it’s clear he's your best friend but you’re certainly not his. He tags along on your escapades and it seems like he’s at his wits end. You drag your friends with you to these sorts of things because you have no one to support you. Ned fakes it, Harry doesn’t even try to hide it, and from how much the two dislike her it’s probably true that MJ doesn’t give a shit. This is hard to watch, Peter, it really is. You’re not even at the meatball part and I already know that no one will snap for you.

“Ugh, no wonder he didn’t get into MIT,” Harry snipes.

Ned just sighs and throws another shot back. Your friends are the worst, Peter. Jesus fuck.

“I feel like this has to do with Flash,” Ned says as he plays with the rim of the glass, “I feel bad for him.”

_Flash?_

“Yeah, that actually makes sense. Fall for a douchebag and you start writing sappy stories about emotionless worlds and blah, blah, blah.”

I don’t hear anything after _fall for._ You’re lying to yourself, Peter. And to your computer and to your “friends” and to the world because you love him and you don’t love me. _Flash._ No.

“Come on, Har. You’re being mean,” Ned says and it’s like I can hear the sad face emoji echo in his voice when he talks. He pities you.

Harry snorts. “I’m just being real, dude. Flash is a prick who uses his daddy's money to start _businesses_ that last like three months before he gets bored.”

“What did he major in again?” Ned asks.

Harry swallows even more of the disgusting pickle juice and shrugs. “Fuck if I know. Does it matter?”

Yes it matters, you arrogant prick. I care and I want to know because right now I want to cry because you’re in love with someone that isn’t me. Ned puts his head in his hands and gives off an incredibly loud, audible sigh. So loud I’m worried you’ll hear and break down because you’ll realize your friends don’t care about you.

“I just wish he’d be at least somewhat decent around him. He’s such an ass to Pete.”

Harry shakes his head and laughs but not before chugging yet another long gulp of the shitty drink in front of him. “Ya know what? Peter’s full of himself and so is Flash. I don’t feel bad for either of them. They’re perfect for each other. Pete thinks he’s a writer and Flash thinks he’s a businessman. It’s a joke. Fuck this.”

Ned tries to deflect the situation before this becomes an all out hate-fest by saying, “I wish I was drunker right now. I have work tomorrow.”

“Did you hear about the soda company Flash is starting? That shit makes me want to chug Monster until my heart rate increases so much I fall into cardiac arrest,” Harry tries to joke.

Ned pretends it’s funny to continue to deflect. “You should tweet that, at least a thousand retweets I bet. But change the stuff about Flash and voilá.”

You finally finish and a few drunken hippies snap and you’re escorted to the other writers and a few high five you on your way back to Ned and Harry. Ned slumps forward.

“I still feel bad for him.”

Harry quips, “I feel bad for Will.”

You sit back down at the table and Ned and Harry are forced to stop talking about you. Ned’s the first to hug you and praise you. Harry gets in a half hug before you laugh and back away a bit. You’re tipsier than I realized and your reading doesn’t have an affect on you yet.

“Guys, please. I can only handle so many compliments and cocktails,” you say.

Ned is quick to place a hand on your side as you almost begin to trip. He sighs, something I’m noticing he does a lot.

“Maybe no more cocktails?” Ned doesn’t really ask it like a question, he wants you to know that enough is enough and he doesn’t want to be responsible for having to carry you back into your house drunk.

You shake your head as Harry starts to disagree. “We just got here. I’m gonna go order three more picklebacks. This guy needs liquor after that.”

Harry’s trying to be fake-polite, he’s condenscending and you don’t buy it. You push him away when he goes to hug you again.

“I don’t need anything. I just read a fucking story, Harry.”

Harry turns around to walk to the bar and you don’t see it but he rolls his eyes. Ned is there to fake-comfort you and you still don’t buy it.

“You read the shit out of that story, Pete.”

You’re nasty when you’re drunk and it’s good I get to see this side of you. You shake your head as Ned sits down next to you.

“Fuck you guys,” you grunt but Ned is quick to ignore you because you’re drunk and sad and he knows not to push it further.

Harry is back with the drinks and Ned takes his slowly, methodically but you nearly down yours in seconds. You take a glance at the bar while Ned and Harry exchange annoyed expressions.

“Did Flash leave already?” You ask.

Harry steps right into his condenscending attitude and gives you a pitiful look while Ned shakes his head. “Oh, babe. Was he supposed to be here tonight?”

Your head falls and you whip out your phone. Ned snatches the device out of your hands and for a second you look pissed. Ned places the phone in his own pocket and has to chastise you like a dog.

“Peter, no. You invited him to your reading and he didn’t show. Leave it alone. Leave _him_ alone,” Ned flatlines.

You reach for your phone and whine when Harry has to step in to intervene. He’s inbetween you and Ned now but you keep reaching for his pocket, and it hurts. You want _Flash_ more than me and anyone else in the world right now.

“Why do you guys hate him? What if he’s hurt or something?” You whine.

You know it’s not a legitimate question, you just want to see what your friends think about him and I thank God that they don’t approve. Harry laughs openly in front of you and you physically recoil.

“What if he’s an _asshole_ , Peter?” Ned retorts.

Anyone can tell how badly Harry doesn’t want to be a part of this situation. He laughs and distances himself while Ned tries to get you to understand. One day, Harry will move far away from New York City and live in a remote village in Maine or something and marry a man who will give him everything he asks for. He’ll be sitting at a twenty-four hour diner while he drinks stale wine waiting for his husband to show up after a shift at work. And it’ll be so hard to wake up every morning because his daughters he blindly named Cecilia and Grace go to school at eight sharp and he’ll still be hungover from wine at the diner the night before.

But Ned will be a part of you for life and that’s something I’m going to have to accept. He might not seem like the most supportive person but I also blame that on Harry’s presence and the picklebacks.

“Peter, actually listen to me. Flash? He’s an asshole, okay? He thinks he’s an artisan and watches entrepreneur tutorials on YouTube. He sells fucking club soda for a living and his name is stupid. Who names their kid Flash? Seriously.”

Thank God for Ned and thank God you’re too drunk to argue. You nod and change the subject.

“So did you guys actually like my story?”

Harry picks up the topic so fast that there’s no awkward silence in between. He smiles and shifts himself away from between you and Ned. “Yeah, I guess you spend a lot of time in Ikea?”

“I don’t,” you say and Jesus Christ, Peter, you’re in a dark place.

Harry and Ned watch as you slump. Ned takes his still full drink and lifts it up high above his head. Harry grabs his half drunken one and follows along.

“To never speaking to Flash or drinking that fucker’s stupid club soda ever again,” announces Ned.

You play along and pick up your empty drink, clinking glasses with your friends to commemorate the toast. Everyone laughs and gulps down their drinks but your drink is gone and you leave to grab another. You pass by me but don’t say anything. I watch you order two drinks and walk back to the table to drink them both yourself. This goes on for a few hours; you running back to the bar to drink yourself half to death while Ned and Harry watch and roll their eyes and look at you with pity. I walk out so I know when you’ll leave. Their stares are obnoxious and Harry only gets ruder as he gets drunker and Ned just keeps on sighing with every drink you bring over. I hate them, Peter. So I stay against the building and wait for you.

-

It’s one in the morning and you’re trying to get back home before May does and you’re standing in the yellow zone next to the G train station. You have your phone out, which you begged Ned to give back to you halfway through a drink. He was drunk enough to forget about your toast and you took it greedily and haven’t been off it since. Your fingers fly across the keyboard and I’m thankful no one else is waiting for the last train ride of the night.

There’s a homeless man singing a folk tune as he lies next to one of the columns. You keep tripping over nothing and your stance is off and you have no balance. I watch you teeter in the yellow zone while the bum keeps singing about losing something. You’re pissed and you can’t get off that fucking phone. I know you’re texting _Flash_ about how pissed you are he didn’t see your reading.

This is so dangerous, Peter. You’re a beautiful seventeen year old kid drunk and vulnerable in a New York subway station and you didn’t tell anyone you were taking the subway home. Ned and Harry assumed you grabbed a cab but you instead found your way down here and now I can’t stop staring at you from behind the column.

You slip. Again.

You curse and try to stand up straight. The homeless man sings louder and I’m about to tell him to fuck off but I don’t want you to see me, not yet. I see you turn to glare at the man but after a while you turn back to your phone. Every text is getting you closer and closer to the end of the yellow zone and I have to steady myself. I want to pull you in and hold you and sober you up but I know you need this. You need to hit rock bottom.

Your fingers keep racing across the cracked screen and you look like you’re about to cry. The bum keeps rattling off and with every note I want to slice this throat. It’s ear-bleeding and this would be perfect if he wasn’t fucking singing.

Stop looking at your phone, Peter. It’s going to ruin your life even more if you don’t just put it away. You’re already letting it get you to the edge of the yellow zone. You’re letting the club soda selling asshole who you’re in love with steal everything from you. Fuck that phone. I wish you would throw it on the tracks, turn around and smile at me and laugh at the homeless guy. He’d be so surprised he’d stop singing and you’d notice me and say, ‘ _Don’t I know you, Mister?’_ I’d play along and we’d talk and I would take you home. You would laugh at my jokes and I’d sing to you the song the homeless man won’t stop singing and you’d laugh even harder.

“Can you please stop fucking singing,” you growl and oh, Peter I like it when you’re nasty drunk, I really do.

The bum can’t hear you over his own singing and you watch as he pisses himself and laughs at your disgusted face. You whip your head around fast, way too fast. Your body is leaned back and you’re still glaring at the man. I see it happening before you even know what’s going on. You fall backwards and your phone flies out of your hands and onto the track. You soon follow with it and land on the New York subway line G with a loud thud. You scream. I rush to the edge of the tracks and the bum still won’t fucking stop singing. This is not the soundtrack I pictured would play when I saved you.

“Help! Please help me!” You scream.

“Give me your hand,” is all I say.

But you keep staring down the tunnel and you keep screaming and crying and God you’re so drunk. You look like the last surviving teenager in a campy eighties movie being hunted by the killer. All of your friends have been killed and your one way of communicating has been cut off and then the handsome guy from the bookstore saves you but you need to _take my hand, Peter._

You lament, “I’m gonna die. I’m dead. Oh God!”

“You won’t die. Give me your hand.”

You scream again and your hands cover your ears. “He won’t stop singing, it’s making me crazy! I’m gonna die!”

You’re a sobbing mess four feet below me on the train tracks. I lean down further and hold out my hand. _Take it, Peter, now_. I try to communicate with you telepathically but you won’t listen and you keep screaming and crying.

“I’m trying to help! Give me your hand,” I repeat and your face is still stuck staring at the empty tunnel.

You shake your head and cry and point at the darkness. “I hear a train.”

“No, you don’t. Trust me, you’d feel it first.”

But you won’t listen, you keep crying and shaking. My head hurts and it sucks being in this position on the hard cement ground, Peter. I’m getting inpatient and an actual train will come eventually if you don’t just _give me your hand._ Why are you making this difficult?

“Do you want to die? Because if you don’t take my hand now, you will. Just take my hand!” I shout at you and your eyes turn to meet mine.

There’s something there I never saw before. I see a broken boy, one who’s never been loved the right way. You’re testing your limits right now. You could, theoretically, die but of course I won’t let that happen. But you think that if you don’t take my hand that you will and it’s scary to see you so easily accept that fate. I give up and lean down to pick you up by the arms without any warning. You fight it. But once we’re back in the yellow zone, you don’t try running back. I wheeze, and fuck you’re heavier than you look. But you lay on top of me for a brief moment and everything is fine. It's better than fine because I just saved your life and you're thankful. 

You look into my eyes and you don’t know it yet but there’s a connection. I smile but you roll over to throw up on the yellow zone. I should be pissed. No one’s ever thrown up on me before but you’re drunk and scared and alone and near suicidal. And you’re Peter. So I let it go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't stop writing this! This is so fun to write and I'm loving all the comments! Don't forget to leave more and tell me what you think. For those of you concerned: this will be a combination of the series and the book. They're very smiliar but the show gets some stuff wrong and has weird pacing so I'll be compiling this as like 70% book content and 30% series content. But it will still closely follow the plot with my own details added in. I hope you enjoy it!


	5. 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony takes Peter home after their meeting at the train station only to find someone waiting for him.

I’m terrified by how close you are to me in this cab. I hauled one on our way up the stairs of the subway station. You told me you’d pay for it but I said it would be my pleasure to pay. You’re still drunk but what you think was a near death experience sobered you up a bit. Your hands are resting on the seat in between us and they’re so small and I want to hold them but I can’t. We’ve been sitting in this car for three minutes now and you keep asking me where you know me from.

“I know I know you from somewhere,” you say as the cabbie makes a left.

I shake my head and laugh. “Give up yet?”

You’ve been guessing where you know me from ever since we got in the cab. So far you’ve asked if I was ever a coach for a rival high school basketball team, a judge in a debate tournament, a guy from the community college, even a fucking toll taker for the New York tunnel. You sigh and laugh and you’re so beautiful when you do that.

You hum and place a finger on your chin. “Okay, okay. Have you ever worked on a ferry?”

“Nope,” I say.

You’re convinced to find out how you know me and it’s cute. I love being surveyed by your eyes as you wrack your drunk brain for answers. You lean back on the seat and close your eyes. You’re probably cursing yourself because the guy who just saved your life is handsome and you don’t know his name yet and if only you weren’t drunk.

“Maybe you just feel like you know me because I saved your life,” I joke.

You gleam and burst into another fit of drunken laughter. I want to kiss you so bad but that would ruin everything and I can’t live with myself without you in my life.

“You really did, didn’t you? I’m a lucky guy.”

Yes, you _are_ a lucky guy, Peter. Not everyone is the object of my obsession. Just you. I look away and silently hope the cab driver will say something dumb like ‘Where are you from?’ or ‘So how did you guys meet?’ to drive the conversation forward. But you do it for me.

“Wait did I see you at Greenpoint maybe?” You ask.

Shit. This will be ruined if you saw me at the bar, then leave right before you did, and I just so happened to save you. You’re drunk but not dumb and I need to think of something fast before you start asking anymore questions.

“Oh, yeah. I think I saw you, too. I work there on weekends; bartender,” I say.

I hold my breath as you wait for a second before smiling. “Oh, cool! I bet you hear lots of stories.”

I breathe out and nod. “Yeah, it’s pretty interesting,” I make sure not to mention that I know you write stories, “Tons of them every week.”

“Tell me your favorite story from this week!” You gasp and you seem so interested and maybe it’s because you’re drunk but I don’t care.

It’s so hard to look at you without saying everything I feel about you: You’re so gorgeous, I want to fuck you, I want this cab ride to go on forever. I wish you were more open at the train station and not screaming about dying because I would’ve fucked you right there on the yellow zone. I would’ve filled you with the love you’ve never really gotten before and you’d love me and it would be much easier to talk to you if we fucked beforehand.

“Hard to pick a favorite, ya know?” I say back.

“Hey, look,” you say as you bite your lip and turn to face me, “I didn’t want to freak you out. Like I’m some weirdo who remembers every conversation he’s had with someone but I _do_ know how I know you.”

“You do?” I ask.

You nod and smile. “The bookstore.”

I look at you quizzically and pretend not to recognize you. You bite your lip again while you search for the right words to say. You move your hands around, trying to explain something you think I don’t understand.

“The one in Bed-Stuy. We talked about Joyce Carol Oates? ‘Blonde’ and ‘Them’?” You try to jog my memory but I know about our first meeting all too well.

I smile and fake a gasp. “Oh, right! And the Kindles thing, too.”

You clap and smile and I can see it in your eyes; you wanted to hug me. But you didn’t. You lay back and shake your head.

“I’m sorry, you probably talk to like thirty guys a day. You must think I’m crazy,” you say.

“No, it’s more like seventy.”

You laugh and look at me with those huge brown eyes. I want to kiss you. I just want a taste.

“Ha,” you roll your eyes, “But you don’t think I’m some stalker, right?”

Oh, the irony. I think back to your Twitter bio. _Peter / 17 / NYC / I talk to strangers._ Do you do this often? Meet up again with someone you met eons go, mention something you remember, then they give you a weird look and you have to explain how you like to meet random strangers even though it’s New York and you’re gorgeous and you couldn’t easily meet the wrong people. How many awkward encounters have you had where you see someone you met before but they don’t remember you?

“Nope, not at all.”

Now we’re staring at each other and I’m about to get rock hard if you look at me any longer. I remember in eleventh grade health class when our teacher told us how eye contact forms a strong bond of either trust or unease and there’s no in between. She also mentioned how eye contact held for ten seconds or longer becomes uncomfortable and I’m counting now and I think you can tell.

“So,” you start, “You work at Greenpoint, right? I’ll have to come back for a drink soon.”

I almost want to catch you in the act. I want to pull around and say, ‘You don’t look twenty-one’ just to see how you’d react. Do you really believe that I think you’re legal age? Peter, you look maybe eighteen at best and that won’t get you into any bar. Unless it’s Greenpoint where the bartenders are also drunk, the bouncers are underpaid lackeys and the patrons are depressed hippies. No wonder you and your friends chose it; it’s the only place in this city that hates itself enough to serve obvious teenagers.

“Oh, I just fill in there. I’m mostly a bookstore clerk.”

“Bartender and bookstore guy, cool,” you say.

The cab rolls to a stop at West Fourth Street. You look out the window as the driver asks if this is your stop. You shake you head.

“Actually, I’m around the corner. On Bank Street.”

I silently thank my health teacher because our eye contact stimulated trust in you. You’re fine with me knowing your address because you don’t think I’ll kill or hurt or stalk you which is a good start.

“Ooh, Bank Street. Life of the rich and famous,” I joke.

You sit back and play along. “What can I say? I’m an heir.”

“Ha, to what?”

You have to think for a moment before smiling. “An heir to bacon.”

You humored me when most boys would’ve drawn a blank or punched my arm playfully. I respect that. I also make a mental note that you like bacon. Now we’re here, at your place, which I’ve already visited. On numerous occasions. You start look around the backseat of the cab for your phone, your hand patting every few inches of the polyester.

“Shit, my phone. Where is it?” You sigh.

I lean around to look for it and suddenly there’s a tap on the window. We both jump and turn around to look. I have to squint to see who it is. _Flash._ The prick has enough balls to knock on the window of a cab. You roll the window down and smile. And that sinking feeling of hurt, pain, and rejection seeps in again.

“Oh my God, Flash. You have to meet the man who literally saved my life,” you croon.

He smiles and actually flips his hair. I want to beat the hit out of him.

“Good job, dude. Of course something would happen at Greenpoint. Nothing good happens there, dude.”

I hate how he talks and how everyone is a _dude_ to him. Why is he here? You haven’t been on your phone this entire ride and there was no ‘ _Dick appointment @ 2 w/ Flash’_ on your whiteboard. You smile at him and he’s smiling back. That’s when I see it; your phone trapped between the cushions of my seat and yours. I pull it out and slip it into my pocket. Flash doesn’t notice because he’s too absorbed in looking at you like you’re a meal. You pop back into reality and stop staring at him.

“Oh, shit. I think I lost my phone,” you say.

Flash leans away to pull out a cigarette. And I swear he rolls his eyes as you slump back in the seat.

“What’s your number?” I blurt out.

You look out the window at _Flash_ and then back to me like there’s a problem. He’s not your fucking boyfriend but you’re acting like he is and that number exchanging would be inappropriate. But I stay calm and breathe out.

“I need your number in case I find your phone. You might have left it on the train tracks,” I insist.

Flash looks over at ‘train tracks’ but doesn’t say anything because he doesn’t care. And it’s sad that you don’t see that. But I hold my gaze at you and finally you’re looking away from Flash and back at me.

“Oh, right. Sorry, I think I’m still freaked out. Got a pen?”

“No,” I say as I pull out a phone that thankfully isn’t yours.

You give me your email address because you ‘don’t remember it off the top of your head’ which is fine. I’ll give you that, Peter. I’m a guy you just met at the subway and Flash is right there and you don’t want to make him any angrier than he already looks. I type it into my phone ‘ _peterparker01@gmail’._ You’re mine now. I thank you and slip my phone back in my pocket where it rests next to yours.

“You coming or what?” Calls Flash.

You sigh and push open the door. You’re sliding off the seat and wrapping your jacket around you further and this is all wrong. You’re choosing Flash and not me and I want to scream. But I smile and wave.

“Thank you so much!” You call as you walk into your home as Flash opens the door.

“Everytime,” I say.

You shut the door behind you and I have to tell the cab driver to drop me off in Bed-Stuy. You’re going upstairs in your room to fuck Flash before your aunt comes home but it doesn’t matter, Peter. Our phones are connected and you’ve given me access to your life, if only a little. But it’s enough.

-

I walk into the bookstore and close the door behind me, silently thanking Jason for remembering to lock it. I walk past the rows of books to the back room where books that haven’t been shelved yet linger. The blue door whose painting is chipping off stands in the back. To Jason and the customers it look like a typical storage closet. Which does in fact lie beyond the door. But in the closet is another door, a heavy metal contraption that only locks from the outside, that protects the sound proof basement.

I walk down the stairs and into the dimly lit basement. I’m greeted with my favorite piece in the room; the cage. Cage isn’t really the right word, Peter. It’s gigantic, with glass walls going from the floor to the ceiling, and bright, white light shines throughout it. He tops of the walls have holes for the books to “breathe” and there’s a small glass box on the wall with the door. It’s beautiful and doesn’t look like a prison. It’s more grand than that and the area is so stark white you’d think it was a dentist office at first.

The most expensive books live here. First editions, signed copies, rare finds. They’re listed as for sale but hardly anyone comes into a New York bookstore because they want a first edition of ‘Huckleberry Finn’. So this rooms lays mostly unused and has been my sanctuary my entire life.

I started with Mr. Bailey when I was eleven. My parents never looked after me and I chose books over school or friends. Mr. Bailey noticed me always lingering around the store. He offered me a job after one conversation. I wasn’t paid much but for a neglected, bored eleven year old it was a dream job. I ran small errands like shelving, cleaning, and stocking. I was fourteen when Mr. Bailey installed the cage.

It was the summer and I remember because the hispanics who delivered the parts where complaining and saying, ‘caliente’ which I later learned meant hot. Mr. Bailey screamed at one who dropped a panel as the man was shifting it upright against the basement wall. I watched as the few men carried the glass one by one into the basement and then began weidling it together in the middle of the room.

It took two days to get the cage done but I could tell Mr. Bailey loved the outcome. He made me shelve the rare books and explained to me how to place them in book jackets and sterilize the pages. The hundred or so books we had at the time all looked marvelous in the cage once they were shelved.

I open the door to the cage and take in the purified air and bright light. That’s when you pop into my head and I can’t help myself. I stand away from the books and pull out my dick. I can imagine you in here with me, admiring my books and telling me how amazing it is to be surrounded by classics. If there’s anyone who would appreciate this as much as me, it’s you, Peter, with your pretty face and your dream of writing something good enough to make it into my cage. You’d fuck me to get into this cage one day with your short stories and I cum.

You take a lot out of me, Peter. For good and worse.

I walk back upstairs when I’m done because the store is opening in a few hours. I don’t even bother to go across the street to sleep. I fall asleep on the couch in the front of the store. I only have less than two hours to sleep but I know my dreams will be full of you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to start replying to the more longer comments since I hate seeing such praise go unanswered. As always, please leave comments and tell me what you think! I will also be answering any questions you guys have about the story and where it's going.


	6. 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony uses Peter's phone as a way to see into his life but he quickly realizes that there are things that he wishes he didn't see.

I’m in the L-M section when I hear a chime at the door. My first customers of the day are a family looking for ‘The Great Gatsby’ for their son’s english eleven class. By taking just one look at him, I can tell he’s not a reader. His parents probably forced him to go to ‘inspire the young mind’ and buy the book instead of renting one from school. I scan the book for him while his eager parents watch and his little sister sits on the couch facing the non-fiction section. The parents explain how they're both such big bookworms and it excites them that their son is finally getting to read ’real literature’ in school. I give them a big smile and hand them the bag containing a paperback Gatsby. I hope this is us one day, Peter. Forcing our kids to read and laughing when they hate it but knowing they’ll get over their teenage angst eventually and realize they learned so much from books and are thankful their awesome fathers made them read so much.

It’s heartwarming to think about our future but I need to take the extra steps to get there first. You’re coming by today and I know because you’re the type of teenager to not put a password on their phone. I opened it up after my nap and had access to everything. You emailed Ned and Harry last night to tell them about your phone issue and that email was how you were going to talk until you got a new phone. You also told them that you were swinging by Bailey’s Books to thank me for saving you. When Harry asked what you meant by ‘saving’ you sent an email detailing our meeting.

_Long, crazy story ahead lol. But basically after the bar I decided to take the subway home instead. So I was standing at the station waiting for the night train when this homeless guy kept singing this song. I was getting pissed so I yelled at him to stop but I fell backwards and onto the tracks. Tony, the guy from the bookstore I told you about, was there and he pulled me off. He paid for a cab ride home and everything. He was really sweet and I really should go back to thank him again. Ya know, when I’m not wasted lol._

Harry: _OMG!! He really did save ur life! Thats super sweet and im glad ur okay!! :)_

Ned: _Holy shit Pete!!! I’m so glad you’re okay and thank God for that Tony guy. But where did your phone go??_

You: _Idk. Probably fell on the tracks, ugh. I have enough to buy myself a replacement and switch the plan over. But May’s gonna be pissed. So I’ll probably just buy myself the same phone and hope she doesn’t notice. She gave me the PW to the phone user a while ago so I can switch it over myself._

This couldn’t get better. I have your phone, you won’t turn it off because you don’t want May to find out, you’re coming over to thank me, and you mentioned me to your friends before! I smile wide as I let Jason take over the counter and read your emails in the backroom.

Ned: _Uhm absolutely not!! Tell May so she can shut the phone down. Identity theft! Perverts! Creeps! Anyone could have your phone, seriously. Tell her you fucked up, she’ll understand. Just get that thing turned off._

You: _The phone’s probably dead, maybe it got ran over on the tracks. And if someone does have it, who’s stealing my identity? I’m broke lol. And if a creep wants to stare at the pics I had and post them on the internet then fine! (lol jk) But really, Ned, I don’t think it’s a big deal. Chances are it’s long broken. I don’t want May to freak out._

Ned: _THEY’LL GIVE YOU A NEW PHONE WHEN YOU TELL THEM YOU LOST THE OLD ONE! FOR FREE. May won’t be upset Peter, seriously. Just get that shit turned off, I’m worried about you._

Fuck Ned for caring. I want to slam the phone on the ground but you resist. Your next email is fast and you’re one part angry and another part scared May will find out. So, it's only natural you're upset about this.

You: _Calm down, Ned. I can’t tell May I lost it because then she’ll ask how and I’ll have to tell her about the bar. She’d never let me out again and you know I can’t lie to her. Plus, she’s clueless about technology. I’ll be fiiiiiine. And I have enough money to get another. It’s not a huge deal. She’ll never find out._

Ned doesn’t reply. Thank God you’re deciding to be stubborn today. I get to stay on your phone and see everything you send and get sent. I check your pictures, emails, texts, contacts, and downloads. It’s like I have a mini encyclopedia of your life. I love reading your emails and texts (don’t worry, I make sure to mark all as unread so you won’t get suspicious) about things after school, studying, hanging out with your friends and over all stupid high school shit. But it’s so intoxicating and I feel like after reading every message I’m getting closer to you. You’ll get close to me too, I promise. Starting today.

You’re here.

I pretend like I don’t notice you walk in and turn away from the open door to the backroom. You make your way over and I’m so glad this bookstore is empty because your outfit is turning me on. You’re wearing skinny jeans that actually fit you and a shirt without a jacket on top. You’re showing off your arms and they’re thicker than I expected and your hips are being hugged by the tight jeans and I want to fuck you so bad. You dressed up for me, revealed more of your skin to me and it has a very dangerous effect. But I smile and act like it’s nothing. I walk out of the backroom and wave while flashing you a huge smile.

“Hey,” I start, “What’s up?”

I lean across the counter and you meet me halfway for a hug. Everything about this is so right and you feel good and familiar in my arms. I could hold you like this forever, even if it is uncomfortable because my belt keeps digging into me from the counter. But I know when to let go so I pull away first. You smile and fuck I wish we were hugging again.

“I brought you something,” you say.

You hold up a blue reusable bag.

“You didn’t have to.”

“Actually, I kinda did,” you laugh, “Since I didn’t die and all.”

I smile as I sit back on the chair behind the counter. I motion for you to come back here and you do. I can see it in your eyes, you’re eager and excited. Maybe you’ve never been behind a counter before or maybe you want to fuck me here. I’m hoping it’s the latter. I lean back on the chair and prop my legs on the shelf in the desk, exposing a bit of my midriff as my shirt rides up. I have to give you something to dream about.

“Show me what you got, kid,” I say.

You place the bag on the counter and beam. I lower my legs and lean over. I shift myself closer to you so you can smell my cologne which I know you like because you and Harry talked how sexy the bartender at Greenpoint was and how good he smelled. You sent an email to Harry outside of the group email simply titled ‘Maybe Calvin Klein?’ and Harry agreed and gushed about how much he needed to find someone who wore that regularly. So I went to Urban Outfitters down the street, suffered through the indie music and overpriced sweaters until I found ‘Eternity CK’ in the men’s section. I think it smells okay, a little too musky for my taste, but I can tell how you shuffle closer to me.

I carefully open the bag and pull out a book. I flip it to the cover and see it’s ‘Expensive People’ by Carol Joyce Oates, the second book in the Wonderland Quartet. It’s the Modern Library paperback edition complete with a beautifully illustrated cover. I smile wide and look back at you. You clap your hands and gleam excitedly. You’re happy I like my present and I’m happy I get to learn something new about you: You’re a giver.

“Open it up!” You say.

I laugh and flip open to the first page. There’s a small note that takes up the first half of the title page. Your beautiful handwriting sprawls above the title.

_Engine, engine, number nine_

_On the New York transit line_

_If some drunk guy falls on the tracks_

_Pick him up, pick him up, pick him up_

I read it out loud and you clap; I know you get off on your own writing so I make sure to smile while I read it. You are literally asking me to _pick you up_ and I smile wider. You nod and it’s not weird when I say your name because you wrote it so carefully at the end.

“Wow. Thank you, Peter,” I remark.

You smile. “You’re welcome …”

You turn your head to look at my shirt. You’re pretending you don’t remember my name so I help you out.

“Tony Stark.”

You nod and repeat it, like you don’t want to forget it. “You’re welcome, Tony Stark,” you sigh and lean back, “This is kinda fucked up though. I mean, I came here to say thanks and now I’m saying you’re welcome.”

“Tell ya what,” I start with my practiced line, “Since we’re both alive and no homeless men are singing and you got me this kick-ass present, which is awesome because I didn’t have this edition of any of the books in the series …”

You joke, “I noticed, trust me.”

I laugh and then take a deep breath. This is it. The next step. “Let’s get a drink sometime.”

You look back at me and smile and for a second I’m convinced you’ll hug me again. But you look away. Then things I never put together are coming together and I realize I’m fucked. You didn’t write your number in the book. You bought me the second book in the series, not the one I talked about. You still haven’t told me that you’re underage. That’s when I remember that it’s not just me in your life right now. There’s _Flash_ with his dumb haircut and his stupid fucking club soda.

“The thing is, I still can’t find my phone and I don’t have a replacement yet so I’m not really making any plans right now. You know?”

“Yeah, totally,” I agree.

I swivel the chair over to the computer on the counter and pretend that I’m checking something. The way you emailed Harry and Ned about me, how much you’re into me, how thankful you are that I saved your life. Why isn’t it enough? You didn’t tell your friends about how when you masturbate you sometimes take the dark blue pillow you keep behind the others and hump it. I know that when you fucked that pillow last week you were thinking about me; how good that mysterious, sexy guy at the bookstore would feel. You were so nervous around me you forgot your phone for fuck’s sake. But you’re stuck on _Flash._ I have to speak before you walk away awkwardly.

“So, you never found your phone?” I ask.

You sigh. “Yeah, I mean, no. It’s fine. I’m pretty sure I left it at the subway.”

“But I thought you had it in the cab?”

You purse your lips but shrug your shoulders after a second. “I did, yeah. But it’s fine, really. I mean, who remembers the name of the cab company, am I right?”

Lower Manhattan’s Premier Taxi-Land.

“Right, nobody ever remembers the name of cab company,” I agree.

You’re nervous right now and I can tell by the way you keep repeating ‘I mean, yeah’ and how you keep looking away while shuffling your feet. I can’t tell if this is because of me or because you miss your phone. Maybe if you had it your face would be buried in it, tweeting away about how cool Bailey’s Bookstore is and how awesome giving feels.

“Hey, you still have my email address, right? I’ve been using that since my phone’s been gone. Can I get yours? Maybe we can make plans soon,” you say.

Yes. _Yes._ I nod and take a bookmark off the rack. I write my email address _’tstark2243@gmail’_ on the back and hand it to you.

“These bookmarks are for paying customers only.”

You laugh and take the bookmark. You fold it neatly and place it into the front pocket of your skinny jeans. You look back up and I note just how nervous you are without your phone to dive into. You look like you’re waiting to be excused. Jesus, Peter, you really do have daddy issues.

“My job isn't the coolest thing in the world, but,” I drag out the ‘but’ and smile, “It’s still my job. So why don’t you skedaddle and let me, ya know, get back to work.”

You smile brightly and nod. You look almost relieved to not have the burden of choice. “Thanks again, Tony.”

“Every time,” I say.

“I like that you say. ‘Every time’ instead of ‘any time.’ It’s like saying that there will never be a time where you _won’t._ Does that make sense?”

I nod. “That’s what I’m going for.”

You laugh and shake your head as you leave. You don’t say ‘have a nice day’ or ‘goodbye’ because we’re beyond that, Peter. You trust me, you like me, you want me. And now I get to write to you. I knew you’d want to talk on email as soon as you saw me again so I started writing my first one to you last night. I know you won’t reply right away but you’ll think about me while you slip the bookmark with my email into your copy of ‘Them.’ It’ll fit perfectly.

-

You haven’t written back to me, Peter. It hasn’t been forever but it’s getting there. You send emails to Harry and Ned until three days after our last meeting. Then you start texting them and I realize that you probably text more than you talk. You have a groupchat with them and the three of you talk about absolutely nothing. There’s some parts that are about me or some random hot guy one of you saw on your way to Starbucks. But there’s nothing about you emailing me back and I’m getting worried, Peter. It’s not funny anymore.

You: _Ugh, why do I meet a genuinely nice guy and basically dump him before we even start talking? I’m not one of those guys who hates dating other guys, I just clamp up when I think I might be interested and freeze everything. I mean, he’s the exact opposite of Flash. He works at a business, Flash owns one. Anyway, are you still down for going to Pure this friday?_

Harry texts back first: _Is this the guy from SideBAR?? Also a maybe for Pure this weekend._

This should have been my first red flag. You even warned me in your Twitter bio. You talk to a lot of guys. You really do like talking to strangers and your texts show lots of unanswered messages from guys you met at bars and clubs and meetings that you never responded to. It’s a good thing you’re careful and fully review guys before talking to them but now you’re doing it to me and I’m pissed and fucking nervous. I can’t imagine how the other guys must have felt, they don’t have your phone and can’t see what I can. I can tell when you ignore me, those poor guys never got a chance. But at least you gave those guys your fucking phone number.

Ned: _Lol SideBAR guy was super cute. Also a yes for Pure unless you wanna go back to Bar None for a change??_

You make plans with your friends to go on even more ilegal bar crawls. How does a top student even have time to drink this much? I don’t question it any longer because after eight days and seven hours you email me back.

_Hey wanna get a drink this Saturday?_

You don’t deserve my humor this time so I send back a simple response after waiting two days.

_Sure. What time?_

The week goes by. After three days you send another email. It’s Sunday.

_Oh my god, I’m so sorry. Just one of those weeks. Had a lot going on with college. How about next week?_

You have the balls to lie to me. I know you’re not a college student but you want me to think you are because you’re afraid I’ll run. I won’t run, I promise, but you don’t see that. You don’t trust me as much as I thought you did and this hurts. Driving you into my arms isn’t working, clearly. I need to be more direct and approach this by taking out the things that aren’t working. You’re scattered and you flirt with strangers and you lie about who you are to protect yourself and you tweet too much. You flirt with everything and everyone. You play the game because you don’t think there’s another option out there. But there is and that option is me but you don’t see that yet and it’s because you’re preoccupied. Your mind runs back to one thing. _Flash._

But in order to get Flash away from you, I need to learn about him. You’re following him on Twitter and Instagram and are friends with him on FaceBook. Flash Thompson. Seriously, Peter, you fell for this prick? He’s the son of a wealthy chode who probably let his opioid addicted wife name him. He went to college upstate for business, failed out, tried going back until he bought a home here in New York City with daddy's money because he couldn’t bare see his son become a total failure.

Now he’s opened his own club soda company appropriately named Home Soda. The website boasts about how “club soda is an expensive treat but that doesn’t mean it should have an expensive taste. Here at Home Soda, we try to emulate the feeling of homliness with our signature gluten free soda. From our home straight to yours. Delivering today!” and I want to puke. Flash’s company is everything that’s wrong in the world and I’m disgusted that he has enough regular customers to open a delivery service.

You can’t tell me you buy into this, Peter, I mean seriously. His slide show on the website shows pictures of him and friends at Nantucket. He tells the story of how he got the inspiration for Home Soda by camping (which is a bullshit lie, he stayed at a friends’ beach house and called it camping for the value of a good story) in Nantucket one summer after leaving college. He doesn’t mention that he failed out.

I click to enlarge the photo and see that same unsmiling girl from the photos in your room. _Aha._ So this is how you two met; through the brooding black girl with long hair whose smile creeps me out. I look through the Nantucket photos more and notice you’re not in any of them. But these people are your friends, you’d think the girl would invite you out, but there’s no signs of you anywhere.

To Flash, you are the desperate boy next door who asks you to come over when he’s lonely and he’s the force that literally enters you and then uses you. He’s the daddy you try to please and the daddy who leaves, no matter what you do. He rents you out for a few hours a week to have sex on your aunt’s couch before she comes home. Then he goes back to his expensive, already paid for home where he calls other guys to come over. He cheats on you, Peter. A lot.

I get a notification on my computer and it’s from you. I open it and read it hungrily because you haven’t started conversation with me since you rainchecked on me.

_Really weird question, but are you at Greenpoint right now? I’m heading over and I remember you said you bartend there sometimes._

I wait thirty minutes to reply.

_Not at the moment. But I’m right next to Lulu’s. Wanna meet there?_

You: _HELL YES! Sorry for all caps, I’m super excited!_

Me: _Haha. I’ll be there at 5. Is that good?_

You don’t reply but I already know you’ll be there. I have to take two trains to get to Lulu’s. I lied about being close but I know it’s one of your favorite bars because they don’t card and their drinks are cheap but not disgusting. You talked at length with Ned about how Lulu’s totally beats SideBAR and I don’t care because I hardly ever drink but you care so I’ll pretend to. I’m sitting on the second train and thinking about how in a few hours you’ll be begging for me at your house on Bank Street and I’ll give you my all. Now I get it, why guys jerk off on trains. But I don’t because you’re in my future. We haven’t even fucked yet but I’m bringing you a present, too. It’s ‘The Great Gatsby’ because that kid who bought it for english reminded me of the kids we’ll have together one day. I’ve written something for you on the title page.

_Engine, engine, number nine_

_On the New York transit line_

_If you feel like you’re to roam_

_This book will be your tome_

It’s not the best but I thought the addition of roaming would be nice since it’s all you seem to do. I’m not sure how Gatsby’s grand parties are going to make you feel grounded but I think it’s a sweet present nonetheless. Now I’m running out of the train and making my way up the massive steps to get to the city ground.

Suddenly there’s a beep on your phone so I pull it out. I reach the top of the steps and scroll through your texts. There’s a lot of information to process so I go around the corner and sit down to read that you have a new text message from Flash. You announced you got a new phone almost two weeks ago to him and was met with silence. Now he’s texted you back.

_Hey._

You: _Hi. Come over._

Flash: _:)_

Now I get a beep on my phone. But I already know it’s an email from you.

_Shit! I have a college thing that just came up. Reschedule for next week? Sorry!_

Then Flash texts you: _Give me an hour, work thing. Be there soon._

You: _:) Okay. Just text when you’re on your way! <3 _

And I deflate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooooh this shit is getting spicy! Ha, anyways please comment and tell me what you think. I know I must sound like a broken record but comments actually do help me write more! This chapter was really long compared to the others and I introduced the email/text format I'm gonna do so a bit of work went into it. I hope you're enjoying it so far!


	7. 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony finds evidence of Flash's wrong-doings and needs Peter to learn the truth.

In the dangerous New York City, every shopkeeper knows to put bars on windows and keep doors triple locked after hours. It’s New York code; don’t lock your shit and it’ll get stolen. Or a guy wearing a dark hoodie and gloves might sneak away while he’s supposed to be on a tour of a certain club soda factory to break into an unlocked office with a door that reads ‘Flash Thompson CEO’. It’s ridiculously easy to break into Flash’s office. So much so that I was worried he was secretly a genius who knew I was obsessed with you the moment we met in that cab. But no. He’s a just grade-a dumb ass who doesn’t lock his own office.

I let you fuck Flash yesterday when we were supposed to go on our first date. You denied me because Flash was available. I can’t blame you for being in love with a douchebag but it felt good when he spanked you too hard an hour later. I watched him fuck you and hit you and ravage your body when we were supposed to be getting to know each other. That could’ve been me making you feel good, fulfilling your fantasies. I would have treated you like a fucking king but here we are, you choosing an asshole who doesn’t want you and me having to get rid of him.

I know he doesn’t want you for sure now. My suspicions were correct: he’s cheating on you with a performer named Brendan Rossi. He has a calendar for the guy’s shows and the date for when he goes on tour. He’s an indie singer from Minnesota and Flash is love with him. They talk a lot, fuck a lot, but aren’t even together yet. I have no proof but something tells me Brendan is playing Flash like Flash is playing you. Oh, the great circle of debauchery.

His computer granted me access to see Brendan’s live feed of a show he’s playing at right now in Astoria. An Instagram live link is the first thing I see in Flash’s marked pages. It’s being shot from someone behind the stage and I can see Brendan and his band playing and the crowd in front of them. I scan the crowd and it’s not long before I find Flash, seated in between two very gay and drunk men. He’s smiling from ear to ear and holding a fucking bottle of Home Soda. He must have brought a case of it for what he thinks is his boyfriend.

So the bastard can’t make it to your reading but he can trek across New York from West Village to Astoria just to watch some shitty indie band sing in a crowded, bored bar. I walk away from the laptop and out of the wretched factory that reeks of sadness and metal. You’re not a fan of Brendan Rossi because you have a brain, so I know you won’t see him in the live feed. But Flash doesn’t know that you don’t listen to him, so in his mind there’s a possibility you’ll see him ignoring you. But he doesn’t care because you’re the side piece and you don’t know it. This needs to end before you do something stupid like try to get closer to him. You’ll learn the truth about him that way and I can’t have you heart broken for too long.

I walk into the streets of Manhattan, already deciding to walk instead of grab a cab. I pull up my email and create a new one ‘ _ HerzogNathaniel93@gmail’.  _ Nathaniel is a food critic for ‘Vulture’ who eats shit like Home Soda for breakfast and he loves talking about how much better he is than everyone because he eats tofu or whatever. Flash is too stupid to realize the guy is probably not one for sudden interviews with club soda producers. I copy and paste Flash’s email I got from his computer and send him a long email about how excited I am to try his product and get an exclusive interview from the maker himself.

It takes me twenty minutes to walk home from Home Soda: Factory From Hell. By the time I open my bedroom door I’ve gotten an email back from Flash.

_ I’m absolutely flattered, Mr. Herzog. This is crazy, really my wildest dreams come true! It means so much that you’re considering me for a story. Home Soda is my lifeline. I am available whenever for meeting up. _

I roll my eyes. Of course Home Soda is your lifeline, of course this is your biggest achievement since birth. I reply back to Flash once I’ve rolled my gloves off.

_ Is there anyway we could meet now? There’s a bookstore in the East Village called Bailey’s Books. With a cafe underneath it; no one knows about it. It’s very exclusive, but don’t worry I’ll escort you in. -  _ __ N _ _

 

It only takes Flash nanoseconds to reply.

_ Absolutely, sir. I’m on my way. Coming from Astoria. Won’t be long. _

I don’t respond. I’m finally at home but now I have to leave again to get to Bailey’s. I check myself in the mirror; unshaved, musky, dried out and anxious. I go back to change into something less suspicious and shave the dark hair on my chin. It takes me fifteen minutes to get ready for Flash but the trip from Astoria should take another twenty. I grab a jacket and run out of my apartment. I text Jason.

_ Don’t need to come in today. Gotcha covered. _

Jason sends back three smiling emojis and for once I don’t actually hate them. I feel happy, too. I’m happy that I’m at Bailey’s before Flash is and I’m happy that soon Flash won’t be your problem anymore, Peter. I go to get my keys out of my pocket when I hear a voice behind me.

“Hey, are you Mr. Herzog?”

I turn around and smile at Flash. He’s wearing the same outfit I saw an hour ago in the Instagram live. He looks nervous but also like he’s had sex. This look I’m all too familiar with since I’ve seen him leave your home well fucked and happy numerous times now. He smiles when I nod and extend my hand for a handshake.

“Ah, yes! Mr. Thompson, Home Soda’s very own creator,” I gush at him so he feels comforted and important.

He shakes my hand as I lead him into the bookstore. He’s too nervous to notice I lock the door behind me. He walks towards the stack of Stephen King we have piled before the fiction section. He turns back and beams.

“Wow, this place is a gem. Totally gives off that cozy booky vibe,” he marvels, “And they serve coffee here?”

“Yeah, now and then,” I say as he wanders around.

I could be an actor with all the shit I pretend to be for you, Peter. I want to make this fast and easy. Flash is nervous and excited and anything I do would wow him, I need to take this chance because he won’t be this vulnerable again.

“But would water suffice?” I ask and I swear the weasel looks like he’s about to piss himself.

He nods and smiles while he picks up a copy of ‘Doctor Sleep’, reading the back as if it doesn’t know who fucking Stephen King is. I walk to the back room and pour a glass of tap water in a dollar store cup. I crush a few Xanax into the water. Thanks to Jason I got to meet his strung out, loser friends who sell anything to New York kids to make quick money to buy weed. I bought six of the rectangular white pills off a guy named Tucker. Now I’m crushing them up and hoping it’s enough to knock out a two hundred pound asshole but also not enough to kill him.

I’m back out on the shop floor with the glass after two minutes. Flash has officially moved on to the Rachael Ray cookbooks. I hand him his glass and he smiles. He downs the cup in seconds and thanks me for the  _ beverage. _ I’m tidying up books while he wanders around the store asking about the cafe and if there’s any other customers coming. I tell him that I’ve closed the cafe just for our talk and that it’s not ready yet because it’s being cleaned. He gushes about professional cleaners for a second then he’s into a rant about how he’s  _ cleared his calendar for this _ . I’m thankful for his noncoherent rambling because it means he’s getting high and I didn’t give him too much.

I wait sixteen minutes to tell him that the cleaners just texted me and that the cafe is ready for us to begin talking business. He’s all smiles and giggles as I lead him into the back room and down the basement steps. He won’t stop smiling and thanking me and gushing about 'Vulture'. He’s properly high now and this won’t be hard at all. But the second we reach the bottom of the steps, I snap. Punching him is glorious and feels like justice served. He’s rolling on the cement floor and coughing, his head is probably pounding from all the Xanax.

I lift his head by the hair. A part of me thanks him for not cutting this travesty off because it’s easy to hold onto it while I punch him a second time. And a third time. After the fourth his nose is bloody and he’s crying on the basement ground. I deliver a final blow to the side of head and he’s out cold. I drag him by the feet into the cage and search him.

His blazer pocket holds his wallet which contains an ID, three hundred dollars cash, and a few old receipts. I take two hundred and leave the rest. The next pocket contains a fucking drug bag. Whatever’s in it is crushed and white so it could be heroine, coke, ritial, adderall or whatever else kids are into these days. I take the bag and then find his phone. I don’t have to tell you that I open it, Peter. And he’s just as fearless as you: No fingerprint scanner, not even a pin number. In seconds I have access to everything on Flash’s life he might not have enough balls to keep on his work computer.

I leave the cage with my new goodies and lock it behind me. I sit on the wooden bench across the room to look through his phone. Just as suspected, there’s hundreds of photos of him and Brendan kissing, naked, walking in the streets of New York, and doing other narcissistic shit together. Wouldn’t be surprised if there’s an album on his phone with just pictures of his penis that he sends to guys he meets on Tinder. I pick a photo of Brendan, splayed out on Flash’s bed naked but covering himself ladenly with the sheets, and open his Twitter to post it.

_ Wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. #Beautifulboy #Yes _

You’re supposed to interpret this as Flash referring to you as:

_ Would rather be anywhere else. #Inadequate #No _

And oh do you cry, Peter. I’m still at the shop but I know you’re crying because you’ve got push notifications on Flash’s Twitter and you’ve already seen the tweet. There’s nothing more I want than to hold you and kiss you and make you feel loved. But I know I need to keep my distance. I need to let you go through the heart break on your own. You need to get over him. I wait for your sadness to turn into anger and rage. It only takes you an hour to get over the crying and shock part. Now you’re pissed because you’re texting Flash seething words, you slither:

_ I am not your fucking plaything, Flash. I’m not a shitty indie artist with no talent and fucking back piercings or a cum dumpster. I’m a human being, you fucking asshole. I wish you treated me or him like you treat your fucking soda. Fuck your soda, fuck your company, fuck you. That’s who you really love. You love your shitty soda. You don’t love me. You don’t love him. You don’t love anyone. _

I’d have enough money to buy stock in 'Vulture' with all the fucks you put into your text. I see you type it from your phone. I watch as you delete it, rewrite it, and then delete it again. You don’t send him anything. I want you to rant and scream at him because you’ll feel better after doing it. But a part of you still wants the big money playboy to love you and cherish you even if you’re a poor city kid. You hold onto that fantasy and there’s not a lot I can do besides read your group chat.

Ned:  _ Peter, seriously. It would be nice if Flash loved you, but he obviously doesn’t. This is terrible and gross but not surprising. He’s a deadbeat asshole who can waste away with all of his daddy’s money burning holes in his pockets. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m happy for you. Let this end already. _

Harry:  _ Ughhh, it’s official: There’s no good guys in NYC. Not even soda selling cuties can cure the lonely world New York lives in. For real though, Peter, we love you. But this is totally for your own good. It’s better to learn now then later. Men suck :( _

I’m ecstatic that your friends are on my side even if they don’t know it. They’ve always hated Flash and this just gives them more reason to bash you for loving him. I’m optimistic until I see you ignoring the group chat and texting ‘MJ’ instead. MJ has no photos, no links shared between you, and no social media linked on her contact in your phone. But you talk constantly. I thought Ned was your best friend, but this MJ girl is clearly the real friend you have. There’s no gossipy group chats or memes. You actually  _ talk  _ to her and I got jealous the first time I saw just how much she cared about you. She doesn’t walk all over you like Harry and Ned and you’re different with her.

You:  _ I should hate him and I do. But I’m worried something might be wrong. I’ve called him and texted him and no response. He’s probably just busy but what if … _

MJ:  _ What if he’s working on his company and you went off to write something amazing about how this is making you feel? Turn your feelings into stories, Peter. It’s what you do best. I know you. _

You:  _ You’re right. I feel like shit but this could be good for my writing. Thank you, wise one! Lol _

I don’t like how well she thinks she knows you and I hate that you buy into it. Now you’re off writing more sad, unfinished stories about guys stuck in Ikea’s and I’m still figuring out how to make you forget Flash. But you don’t go write more stories, Peter. By the time I get upstairs to lock the basement door, you’re already drafting texts to Flash. Now you’re asking where he is and if he’s with Brendan and if he ever loved you in the first place. Dear God, you’re still in love and you already found out he’s been cheating on you. What more of a sign do you want?

You need more encouragement, more signs of how big of an asshole he is. I open the Home Soda website and see Flash is already logged in as the site’s administrator. I forge an entry on the blog page.

_ Crazy trek up to Nantucket for a while. Need inspo for new flavors coming soon. All with the help of a beautiful companion. _

Of course Flash would visit Nantucket without you. Again. The post is supposed to make you think about the time he went up state with that black girl and not you. The word beautiful is supposed to make you think he’s with Brendan and write him off once and for all. But you send the link to the MJ contact in your phone. You’re no longer pissed; you’re sad and worried. This is not how you’re supposed to get over him.

MJ:  _ Sweetie, he’s a business owner. Of course he’s going to take trips for the company. And he could be talking about his dog. Don’t jump to conclusions. _

I hate this cunt for erasing everything I’ve worked on so far. I have a drop out, junky, pretentious asshole knocked out and locked in a cage for you and you  _ still  _ choose him over me. I posted a near naked photo of the guy he’s fucking behind your back, made you think he’s run away with said guy to Nantucket - a place you weren’t allowed to go with him - and you’re choosing him. I need to be more direct and the only thing I can think of doing is sending you a text through Flash’s phone.

_ It’s over. Long story. Be good, kid. _

You see the message and don’t reply. You don’t send it to the group chat, you don’t draft another fuck-you text, and thank God you don’t send it to MJ. Now it’s late at night and I’m working on scrubbing the grime from out of my bathroom sink when I feel my phone buzz. It’s an email from you.

_ I’m sorry for yesterday. This thursday instead? _

I did it. Finally. I only have two words to say to you:

_ Of course. _

-

I’m back at the bookstore before my shift the next morning. I walk into the basement and only have to wait forty minutes before the little addict is waking up. He sits up and looks around. He doesn’t get it at first. I watch from the bench as he straightens himself and gets to his knees. He squints in the bright light and I can see the blood has entirely dried. He sees me but doesn’t react. He talks about the cafe for a moment before he realizes there’s bars separating us. He races for the door handle and yanks hard. He does it another time before resorting to kicking the glass.

“You don’t need to do that,” I say.

I want to keep him calm. See? I’m kind.

“Let me out!” He shouts, “Fucking let me out now, you prick!”

I breathe out, “Flash, you need to calm down.”

He looks at me. He’s puzzled. So was Bucky when he woke up here. The assholes are always puzzled when the order of the universe is restored, when they are held accountable for their cowardly, pretentious, loveless ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took a break because of school but I'm back to making chapter every other day (ish). Don't forget to leave comments! I love responding to everyone! A huge chapter will be uploaded soon.
> 
> *For legal reasons I'm stating here that the final line in this chapter is directly from the novel 'YOU' by Caroline Kepnes and is no shape or form my own writing. I love the line to pieces and I had to include it in this chapter.*
> 
> "The assholes are always puzzled when the order of the universe is restored, when they are held accountable for their cowardly, pretentious, loveless ways." - “Chapter 9.” You: A Novel, by Caroline Kepnes, Simon & Schuster, Inc., 2014, p. 70.


	8. 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony has to deal with Flash while he gets ready for his first date with Peter.

Thursday morning is finally here. For the last three days I’ve been on Flash babysitting duty. Flash is even more of a nightmare in person than I thought he was going to be. He demands special treatment, like the stubborn blue blood he was raised to be. The basement door has never been put through this much in the span of only a few days. At least Bucky was low maintenance and didn’t cry every time I got the wrong order of gluten free, low fat food. 

Thankfully Jason knows not to go downstairs and it’s not like he has the key anyway. And Harold was a genius for making the basement soundproof decades ago. So many things fall into place to make this world easier for me to be with you, Peter. At times it feels like the only thing stopping us from being together is you and my inability to make you feel you’re worth it.

But I’m tired, Peter. It took an hour to pry open my false ceiling board to grab my knife. That same hidden compartment now holds the box with all of the momentos I’ve taken from your house on Bank Street. The pair of boxer briefs, an old t-shirt you won’t miss with the phrase ‘let’s bond together’ and chemical equations underneath, and an Adidas keychain that fell off your backpack while you were walking to school last week. I shoved the box in the ceiling in the bathroom and hope to God I can get it open next time.

I had to drive all the way to New Haven to use an ATM and grab cash from Flash’s card. On my way back I snapped a picture of the Yale bulldog and tweeted using Flash’s Twitter.

_ The OG #bulldog is back. #yale #timetoparty _

I’m constructing a narrative where Flash runs back to the college he dropped out of to go on a drug binge with old friends. Everyone that follows him believes it because the kid was already tweaking anyway and he’s an idiot. It doesn’t come to a surprise to people that Flash has hit rock bottom again. Especially not to you, Peter. I know you follow him and you screenshot the tweets and send them to the group chat and Ned and Harry agree that men suck and you feel better about being dumped for a while.

All I have to do is not let this prick get to me. He’s insufferable and constantly complains. He’s the exact opposite of Bucky, who at least had the decency of using his inside voice when he wanted to whine. It’s like you know I’m at my wits end and you email me.

_ Hey :) Up early, no idea why. What are we up to tonight? _

I obviously can’t tell you that I’m currently in my basement with your ex boyfriend in a cage. Or that I plan on getting him out of your life permanently and making you a prefecture in mine. Also permanently.

“Holy fuck! Is that Peter? Are you serious, Tony. If that’s all you wanted, then you can have him!” Flash barks.

He figured out who I was about thirty minutes after he first came to. He reminded me of you, in a way, Peter. He also couldn’t remember where I was from and guessed that I was bartender, a roadie for Brendan Rossi, an opening act, and a barista at Starbucks. It took him a minute but soon he was screaming and pounding on the cage walls that his father would look for every Tony in the tri-state area until they found me and killed me. Thoughtful, but I really didn’t want him to know my name.

I bark back, “Do your test.”

He whines and throws back my name, ‘ _ Tony, please’ _ which only pisses me off because it reminds me that he knows my name in the first place. An obvious complication going forward. I compose myself and email you back.

_ Morning sleepyhead. I’ll meet you at 7:30 on the Union Square stairs. We’ll go somewhere else when it gets dark. _

I send the email and pick up the list of Flash’s favorite books laying on the bench besides me:

‘Divine Comedy’ by Dante. Which I’m sure he’s only read once for high school english.

‘On the Road’ by Jack Kerouac. A book about a spoiled brat with a passport in post world war era. 

‘Underworld’ by Don DeLillo. A book written by a total snob.

‘To The Lighthouse’ by Virginia Woolf. Enough already, Flash.

‘War and Peace’ by Leo Tolstoy. This is almost painful to read.

Flash has already failed the tests on ‘Underworld’ and ‘Divine Comedy’. He keeps whining about how he would have made a different list if he knew there was a test coming. This is what arrogant pricks do: they blame everyone else for their failure and complain about it forever. And ever and ever and ever. When will this kid shut up? Thank God you’re nothing like him, you write me back.

_ Where will we go after it gets dark? _

I can’t blame you for being shy and repeating my words; you’re excited and so am I. But I have to play it off like I’m not. I start typing when Flash starts shouting for me to get him better coffee and this morning’s ‘New York Times’ and toothpaste. I tell him to make do with the coffee I gave him, the ‘New York Post’, and the tub of vaseline and baking soda I found in the staff restroom. I finally write back to you.

_ You’ll know when we get there. It’s a surprise. _

“Seriously, Tony. I can’t take a test on a book I haven’t read since high school without better caffeine.”

I roll my eyes and say, “Fine. Forget ‘On the Road’. Tear it up. We’re done for the day.”

Flash smiles and looks up at me with fear and hope and a twinge of guilt. He’s so hopeless and pathetic it’d be easy to eliminate him now. But all good things take time to grow into something even better. Even if it means I’ll have to hear his obnoxious whines for a little while longer.

“Thank you, Tony! I’ve never read on ‘On the Road’ and, uh. Yeah, thank you.”

So now he’s thanking me for making him admit to being an absolute fraud. Even while fighting for his life, he’s lying. I want him to understand the consequences.

“You didn’t read it?” I ask.

He shakes his head, “Not exactly.”

“But you put it on your list. I told you to make a list of your favorite books.”

“I know, I know.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? You’re in a fucking _cage_ and you decide to lie to me? You’re in my store, Flash. You don’t get to do that.”

“Please don’t be mad,” he cries.

I can see his eyes shift from me to the bench. He knows I have the knife with me. I grab it before he can whine again. I don’t turn to look at him as I slowly twist the knife in my hand.

“You don’t want to do this,” he whimpers.

“I spent my time making tests for you on books you’ve never read. You haven’t read a single one of these fucking books. You’ve wasted my time and you don’t want me to be mad? What kind of world do you live in?”

“I’m a liar, okay?” Flash screams.

I turn around. He runs his hands through the thick brown mop on his head and is crying. He is weak and pathetic and he looks like shit. I still grip the knife although it seems ridiculous given Flash’s practically begging on hands and knees. He is being torn apart and it feels good knowing I’m the reason why.

I can see the money in him, smell it even. He’s scared and vulnerable because he’s never had to beg for anything before. Everything has been handed to him. It never mattered how much he fucked up then because someone would always cave and give him what he wanted. He never had to ask for anything, it was given. The way he begs like he’s unsure of the life he’s lived is proof that life is unfair.

“Look, I-I love the book in a post-modern kinda way, ya know? Like, like I know it has something in it that I can relate to and I love how it’s helped others. I appreciate it for being, uh, so relatable and liked. I’ve always liked people who liked the book so I like it in a way even though I haven’t read it. I majored in comp lit, it’s very easy to read a book without reading it.You can read about a book. Do you get what I’m saying? Do you understand, Tony?” Flash rambles.

“Yeah, Flash. I understand.”

“See? See! I knew you would, Tony.”

“Yeah. I didn’t go to Yale, but my bullshit detector is beyond Ivy League.”

I start to walk up the stairs and I can hear him screaming behind me about what an asshole I am and what his father’s going to do to me when he finds me. I only make it halfway up the stairs when I hear him cry again and slam his fist against the cage walls. Now he’s begging.

“Please! Bring me a copy of the Virginia Woolf! I’ll read it! I swear, please, Tony. I’ll read it and then you can make a test, I swear! Tony! Please!” He screams.

Harold put a lot of money into this basement. It’s insulated and hidden. Flash can scream all he wants and no one will hear him, just like nobody heard me. I’m back at the top of the stairs and finally you email me.

_ You’re super mysterious, haha. Can’t wait for tonight! _

The sun is shining from the windows. The entire bookstore is illuminated and the hardcovers shimmer and give a beautiful gleam to the open storefront. I lock the basement door and email you back.

_ Alright, kid, I’ve books to sell. Be on the steps at 7:30 sharp. See you then. _

I told you where to be and you know what I expect. You need that type of direction and I’ll gladly give it to you but only after you wait for me first. I turn my phone off. If you think you’ll get me all day and all night, you’re wrong. It’s going to be a long shift.

-

I check out copies of books all day and ignore nosy customers who ask why I’m closing early today only. I just let nod and smile and place books in bags and count the seconds until our date. It’s been years since something has made me this excited, Peter. You’re special.

Before you, there was Steve. He was also stubborn but I’m going to be patient with you like I was with him. I’m ready to accept you and love you because you need it and I need you. I owe that to you and to Steve. Dear Steve.

Steve was a salesmen at the Allstate Insurance building three streets down from the bookstore four years ago. He was fresh out of college and struggling because who knew majoring in communications and minoring in sociology would lead you to sitting at a desk for seven hours a day selling ridiculously priced insurance to naive New Yorkers. He wanted to be a business reporter and ended up being an underpaid jockey for a company he should’ve been reporting on.

We met at a show in Brooklyn his sister was playing at. He stood next to me in the crowd and couldn’t stop gushing about how proud he was of her. He seemed supportive and sweet and so innocent. I couldn’t just ask for his number there because he was mesmerized by her performance and his asshole friend Bucky was right next to him. I couldn’t even get a word in without Bucky interrupting and leading the conversation away from anything having to do with me.

But I couldn’t leave without knowing who this kid was. I looked up his sister’s band and followed their social media. After a huge successful night in Brooklyn, they were making a come back for a show the following week. So, I dressed in a suit and told the bouncer I was a talent scout. He pointed me in the direction of the owner who introduced me to his sister, Nona. Nona introduced me to Steve later after the show.

I gave her a bogus email and told her I was from Stop It Records. Steve was elated, even Bucky looked proud of Nona. If I were a real scout I would have never signed Nona on. She sounded terrible but indie music was popular then and she could’ve been something bigger had she not gotten in the way. Steve and Nona gave me their numbers and insisted I called them soon with deals.

I had to explain to Nona that sadly the record label was no longer interested although I put in a good word for her. Steve sticked around and I truly loved him, Peter, I did. We started dating soon after and everything felt good with him. Like how I know it will with you tonight. Steve was beautiful and bright and our love would’ve made for a great song. But people like Bucky and Nona got in the way of what could’ve been the rest of my life. They were just one of the few reasons me and Steve didn’t work out.

I have no regrets of our love. I relish in it now that I’ve found you. My troubles with Steve have trained me for this.

It’s gotten busier ever since rush hour hit. I pull out my phone to see it’s almost six. Jason is talking to some woman in the non-fiction section. I call him over and the scrawny kid walks over and leans across the counter while I run copies of Stephen King over magnets. 

“Hey, I’m out for the night. Take over and lock up after these people are done,” I reach into my pocket and throw the keys at him.

He catches the keys and I remind myself to make two separate key sets so I don’t accidentally give Jason the key to the basement. Thankfully the basement key is tucked into my shoe. Jason looks back up as I finish up with the timid girl in front of me.

“Why not wait? I really need the hours, boss,” he says.

Good grief. It’s only six and the kid wants more hours. I know he uses all of the money I pay him for weed but he can’t be that desperate. I shake my head as I bag the girl’s books and hand them to her.

“Just close after they’re gone, Jason. It’s almost the weekend, enjoy it.”

He walks over and takes care of the next customer. I pull out my phone to see it’s 6:05. I know what you’re doing. You’re wondering what lie you can tell May if you get caught. You’re scheduling your activities around our date. You’re sorting through every item of clothing you have and texting Ned and Harry pictures. They’re gushing and praising you for getting over Flash and moving on. You send back smiley faces after you think you’ve found the best outfit; a pair of jeans and a sweater that looks so cute on you I want to rip you out of it.

You’re getting worked up, I can tell. You tell your friends you’re going to rub one out before our date and they laugh and tell you to save it for the date. I can picture you rolling your eyes and throwing your phone back on the bed. I can see your hand reaching towards the back of the bedboard for the blue pillow. I can see you moaning and fucking it and wishing it were me.

I tuck your phone into my pocket and wave as I dash out of the door. You’re on your pillow thinking about me and I’m on my way to get ready for a date that will be the beginning of us. This night is not about Flash or Stephen King or Steve. This night is ours, Peter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be Tony and Peter's first date! (After forever, I know, trust me it's getting there) I hope you guys are enjoying my work and don't forget to leave comments!


	9. 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony and Peter have their first date where Tony sets forth his plan at having Peter be his forever.

I get home at 6:30 and curse as I stub my toe on one of my typewriters. I have a pretty sizeable collection, twenty-four to be exact, of ancient typewriters that I’ve been holding onto because one day the world will end and there will be no one to write the ending. I want to be sure that if the internet disappears forever and trees become endangered, I’ll have my typewriters and bounds of paper to write the last book ever written. I had to get multiple typewriters because what if one jams? No one will be alive left to fix it so I’ll just move on to the next one. Hopefully I don’t get unlucky and have twenty-four consecutive jams.

Thankfully it doesn’t take long for the pain to subside and I can quickly pull out the outfit I already put together for our date. You really like classic early 2000s movies and you and Ned once talked about how handsome Mark Ruffalo was in ‘13 Going on 30’. So I’m wearing jeans with a fancy belt and a blue button down just like Mark in that scene where him and Jennifer Garner eat Razzles and fly off the swing set. I unbutton the top two buttons to give you something to fantasize about later tonight.

It’s already 6:43 by the time I get to the station. I hop on the subway and email you.

_ Running a little late. _

You immediately write back.

_ Me too. _

This train is going too fucking slow. The world seems to slow down to agonize me even further. But nothing can stop us now. This is the night. The beginning of us, I’ll make it happen one way or another. I pull out Flash’s phone to tweet.

_ I would fuck Jeff Goldblum, for the record. #tbh #deepthoughts _

Finally the train stops at Union Square and I nearly run out. I climb the steps and get to the ground. You’re standing on the Union Square steps maybe six meters away. I walk around people entering the subway station and hide behind a kiosk selling hot dogs. You’re standing on the first flight of steps with your new phone shoved in your face. You’re in the sweater and jeans and you look gorgeous. It’s only 7:35. You weren’t running late at all. You got here early because you’re excited to see me. I pull out my phone to email you.

_ Sorry for the wait. Train backed up, be there at 7:45. _

I watch you as you slide to open your email. Your fingers tap across the screen and I can tell by the look on your face that you’ve sent me an email.

_ No worries, me too! See you at 7:45. _

You care what I think and fuck, I’m nervous. You’re nervous. I end my waiting game at 7:51 and step out from the behind the kiosk. I take a few steps towards you and I feel my heart in my throat. This is happening right now, me, you, us. You see me coming and smile. My heart aches and you’re so excited and cute. I reach you and I can feel your body heat from a foot away. You radiate positive energy, Peter.

“You’re late, mister,” you play.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” I say.

We look at each other in silence for a moment and I can feel the pleasantness of it. It’s not awkward or creepy and it feels nice to be able to look at you without it seeming wrong for once. You can feel it too because you smile coyly as I sigh.

“Also,” you start, “you said we’d go somewhere when it got dark. And it’s already dark out.”

“I know,” I say as I sit down on the steps and pat the concrete besides me.

You sit down right next to me and we’re so close. You have to turn your neck to look at me. You’re so much smaller when you’re slouching next to me and I find it beyond cute but someone might think you’re my nephew or something and that would be way too much for a first date. I lay down on the steps instead and you look at me like I’m a comedian.

“Having fun down there?” You ask.

God, I love how you can play into my games and not seem embarrassed. You find this enticing and fun and I’m loving that playful, sexy look you throw back at me. You laugh and we start talking about anything. You mention the homeless guy down the street who pissed into a liquor bottle and we laugh. I joke about taking an hour to shine my shoes for this date and we laugh. You mention Carol Joyce Oates and her obsession with depression and we laugh. We have chemistry. We’re winning!

We’ve been on the steps for at least twenty minutes now and you’ve joined me in laying on the concrete. You like being on display with an older man. You like being so close to me because I smell like that bartender and dress like Mark Ruffalo and act so mature. You like grown-ups, Peter, and if I was an asshole I would’ve already asked how old you are but I won’t. Not yet. If this goes the way I hope, you’ll confess by the end of the night and I can go back to not feeling like a creep after I reaffirm to you that the consenting age in New York is seventeen.

Every time there’s an unexpected silence, one of us fills it in with another joke about how white my shoes are. They’re the classic cloudfoam Adidas that I know you like because of the key chain I have from your backpack.

“Those are seriously white, like Ben Stiller white,” you joke.

“I’ll be sure to tell my shoe-shiner how much you like them.”

“Go ahead. He did a bang-up job, Tony,” you say.

You said  _ bang  _ and  _ Tony  _ in the same sentence and I’m convinced it means something.

“Don’t worry, I tipped him.”

You laugh and start telling me a story about the time you accidentally stole shoes from an outlet in Nantucket. You’re nervous and fidgeting with your thumbs while you tell me how guilty you felt. You keep mentioning shoes and stories about them because you’re worried if you stop you’ll ride me right here on the Union Square stairs.

“So I didn’t mean to steal them, I was just a kid and I walked out with them on. Totally forgot about it. My parents were so mad but we never went back to return them,” you finish.

My attention is stuck on the very end of your story because this is the first you’ve mentioned your parents. Your dead parents. I don’t push it further because sad orphan stories should be saved for the third date. I instead chew up another new bit of information.

“What were you guys doing in Nantucket? Vacation?” I ask.

You shake your head, “No. We actually used to live there. Me and my parents. Only lived there until I was four, then we moved to the city.”

You leave out the part where you moved to the city because your parents died and your aunt and uncle couldn’t afford to live on a pretty island with a toddler. So Flash and the emo black friend went to Nantucket without you even though you used to fucking live there. A terrible thought crosses my mind where you told them you lived in Nantucket and showed them pictures and they got the smart idea to leave you out of their adventure. And when I posted the update to Flash’s blog you were probably hurt even more because you’re the reason he likes it there so much.

“Oh, island boy turned city boy, I see,” I mock you and laugh.

You turn away but I can see a smile, “Ha, sounds like the title of a very bad and old porno.”

You call porn ‘pornos’ and I need you to stop bringing up anything remotely sexual because we’re laying down and if I get a stiff one you’ll most definitely see it. You smile and get up to stretch. I’m still sitting on the ground as you stand and pull your arms above your head. Your sweater rides up and I can see your stomach and the top of your blue briefs and my dick is rock hard now. I sit up with a free hand thrown over my crotch as if I’m relaxing so you won’t notice. I want you, now, but I can’t get up to face you when I’m this hard.

“You seem young,” you say and instantly I’m soft.

“What?”

“Wait, no. I didn’t mean it like that, Tony. Shit, sorry, that came out wrong.”

You sit back down next to me and I move my hand to lay on the concrete now that my erection has suddenly disappeared.

“I mean, uh you’re older than me but you don’t act old. That probably came out really rude. But what I’m trying to say is that you don’t act like you’re some wise asshole who needs to show me how the world works or whatever. I’ve gotten that a lot,” you say.

I feel a rush of gratefulness and appreciation because somewhere out there is a God looking out for me. You’re telling me about Flash and I can see that look of hurt and disgust and resentment on your face. You cross your legs over each other and lean back. I do the same and met your gaze. You smile. I smile. This is good. You’re getting over Flash by getting to know me.

“I’ve never been told that before. I certainly don’t feel as young as I am. I feel like I’m fifty sometimes,” I reply.

It’s true: I’ve always felt older in a way. I’m not up to speed with my own generation. Everyone’s worried about the environment, using social media, watching YouTube and reality TV, laughing at memes. I’ve never been able to relate to this shared experience and belief system and it’s always made me feel way older than I am. Thank God I’m still young.

You laugh, “At least I know you’re not fifty. How old are you?”

I blink. I’ve been so caught up in your life that I forgot you know nothing about mine. I’m not going to lie about being almost a decade your senior: You like older men, that much is obvious. I’m more so worried about the question leading after. You want me to ask how old you are and you’re going to lie to me again. You’re not going to tell me you’re seventeen.

“This old sack of bones just passed twenty-six,” I say.

You smile, “Yup, definitely not fifty. Just as I suspected.”

I’m beyond grateful that you leave it at that. It has to be getting late now because some family across the square is shouting at their toddler for throwing their hotdog on the ground. The mother mentions to the father that they need to get back to the hotel soon to sleep. Tourists in Manhattan. Great.

“This is gonna sound really stupid, but what did you want to be when you grew up?” You ask.

“A rockstar,” I quip.

You make a face and I try to pull off my best air guitar impersonation which you crack up at. After you’re done I shrug.

“Sounds dumb but I liked rock and roll. What about you?”

You don’t miss a beat, “A writer.”

“Is that why you write so much?” I ask.

“How did you know I write?”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“Oh, uh.” Fuck. “Just guessed.”

You hum and say, “Note to self, become less predictable.”

I’m beet red and you’re sitting here thinking about what I just said and fuck. How could I have been so careless? I can’t let you think too hard or else you might remember me from Greenpoint. If you realize I was at Greenpoint when you performed you’ll ask how I knew and this will be a trainwreck. I need to think of something now.

“You’re not predictable, Peter. You just have a FaceBook.”

“Oh, so what you’re saying is I have a stalker?” You joke and it’s cute but God you don’t even know how close to the truth you are.

You smile and playfully slap my thigh. I just dodged a literal bullet and now you’re touching me with those small hands. I breathe a sigh of relief and smile at you. You work me up sometimes, Peter. That was way too close.

“I wouldn’t call it stalking,” I say, “It’s not like it’s private.”

You laugh and slap me - again! - and lean into me slightly.

“Bet you’ve looked at some of my photos,” you say.

I smile, “Only a couple hundred, you know, just the ones from last week.”

You smile and comically lean away for a second but you’re back now. I inch closer towards you.

“No! I don’t want to be that guy who shares his entire life on FaceBook,” you fake whine.

“That’s not your whole life.”

“It’s really not.”

“You save a lotta that shit for Twitter,” I joke.

You laugh earnestly and slap my thigh again and you like me and I’m obsessed with you. We’re quiet for a second and a few teens on skateboards ride by and one of them looks at you like you’re meat. You’re wearing a sweater and jeans for crying out loud, no one should be looking at you like that unless it’s me because I have your attention now. It makes you shy for a second and your voice lowers.

“I looked for you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, on FaceBook. I was gonna look at your pictures, but you’re not on it.”

“I was for a while,” I lie, “Got burnt out. Felt fake after a while and I decided to delete it. Too much drama, really.”

There you go again with wincing when I say ‘burnt out’. I smile at you to reassure you. I want you to open up but you won’t. You get closer and I want to wrap my hands around your waist so badly.

“My best friend is a lot like you. Really anti-social media.”

“I wouldn’t consider myself anti,” I say.

You shrug, “Well, you’re not on it.”

I know you’re referring to this ‘MJ’ girl and I don’t want to be like MJ because nobody likes MJ. Ned and Harry hate her enough to completely diss her at social events and Flash seems to like her enough to take to Nantucket without you. So I cannot be seen as another MJ to you or your friends. I can see you wanting to whip out your phone. I stand up and stretch.

“So are you hungry or what?”

“Or what?” You say and you’re cute when you play with me like this.

“I figured you’d want to grab some dinner. I didn’t really have an ‘or what’ lined up,” I joke.

“No one ever does. I’m pretty sure that’s what they call a hypothetical. Or maybe exaggeration.”

“Neither. It’s rhetorical,” I reply.

You smirk and it’s bright and sexy and I really want to fuck you on these steps. But that’s not what I’m here for. I need to make you need me. I extend a hand and you gracefully take it. Your hands are in mine. I’m elated as you hoisted yourself up to stand next to me.

“Where to?” I ask.

You keep holding my hand and it feels amazing. You drag me down the stairs with you because you want me to watch your ass. I do. We’re approaching the subway stairs and you look back.

“I don’t care. As long as it’s not too far. I have to be up early tomorrow.”

-

We’ve been eating Corner Bistro burgers and fries for an hour now. I let you steer the conversation. We talk about our childhoods, yours on Nantucket and mine in Bed-Stuy. I tell you everything there is to know about Nantucket, all of which I learned while trying to better understand your ex boyfriend. You say: “Wow, Tony. You’re so well read you’d think you work in a bookstore.” We even get to the topic of ex boyfriends and you roll your eyes halfway through chewing a burger and say, “Yeah like my druggie ex, every time I push him away he comes back. But let’s not talk about my love life. What’s yours like?” And I agree because I’m the agreeable handsome bookstore clerk that you’re going to fall in love with.

I tell you vaguely of Steve and how heartbroken he left me. You frown and are the sympathetic boyfriend I need. You listen to me and hold my hand and nod when I can’t form words. Everything I say, whether it’s about Steve, work, books, art; you listen and eat it up. After our burgers I order two vodkas with shaved ice and eye the waiter who’s too nervous to ask how old you are. You don’t interject to tell me how old you are. I’m uncomfortable with the idea that you don’t trust me enough yet to be honest. But I let it go and hope vodka will loosen you up enough for secrets to slip.

After your first drink you’re finally loose enough to ask me what you really want to know.

“When did you graduate college? Where did you go?” You ask.

“Never even started,” I say.

You nod and sip more of your drink. You’ve never been around guys like me. Guys who don’t go to prestigious schools to get fancy degrees they can’t use. I’m smart without school and you love the idea that maybe not everything relies on education. I start to laugh in the awkward silence and you start laughing with me. I’ve never been around guys like you. Guys who can laugh with me and appreciate literature. Steve took me too seriously. You’re young enough to find me cute but old enough to find me sexy, and it’s the perfect mixture.

We start playing this game of who’s read more books. I win every time in every category and in every genre. You shouldn’t be surprised but you are because the vodka is kicking in. You sit across from me stunned.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you didn’t go to college and you’re more well read than half the kids in college. It’s insane.”

I smirk. “Don’t tell the kids at school.”

You wink and start laughing. Now we have secrets and inside jokes together and I’m fucking patting myself on the back because I’m so good at talking to you. We’re the last ones here and every table around us has chairs piled up. It’s late, way later than you said you should be home by. But you haven’t looked at your phone all night and I haven’t taken my eyes off you. After a bit to move you to sit next to me on the booth seating. You ask for permission to lay down but I shake my head.

“You could do that or I could take you home,” I say.

You sass, “Yeah, and then what?”

It’s seeped in sexual desire and a bit of drunken goofiness. But I shrug it off and look directly at you as I tilt my head.

“Anything you want, Peter.”

You throw your head back and laugh, “So, you’re a gentleman?”

You’re shy and drunk and being silly with me in an empty bar. I don’t answer your question. Instead I pat my lap and smile.

“Lie down,” I command.

“Yes, sir,” you respond.

Your cheeks are pink and your nipples harden and I’d be willing to bet that if your sweater was pulled up just a bit I could see the outline of your firm cock. You’re turned on and you want me but I won’t even be kissing you tonight. I need to leave you wanting more. You lay your head in my lap and smile while looking directly at me. Imagine if we fucked in here. The smell of greasy food and cheap alcohol mixing in with lust and sweat. It’d smell disgusting, but I can see that you want to. A Bon Jovi song comes on. It’s not one of his hits so I don’t know it. But you gasp and smile.

“Close your eyes, Peter.”

You close your eyes but persist, “I was just going to tell you about this song.”

“I don’t want you to tell me about this song,” I affirm.

I’m training you to not treat me like you treat college guys. College guys want to hear about how you know some obscure Bon Jovi song because it makes you look smart and interesting. I don’t care about the random music you like to impress with older guys with. You think you need to like older things to be with older men, but not with me. What a horrible time you’ve had with the Flash’s of the world to care about something as meaningless as music preference.

I look down to see you smiling with your eyes still closed. Your nostrils flare and I know you can smell my cock and I know you want it. I’m thankful I have enough self control to not let myself get hard with the image of you turning around to unbutton my pants and take my dick the way I know you want to.

“It’s really nice here,” you start, “I wish they’d forget we’re here and lock us in.”

It’s a sweet idea but fuck if my mind didn’t go right to Flash. I was so preoccupied with you that I forgot I had to feed my new pet. I could lay like this forever with you but I can’t because one of your ex boyfriends, one of your  _ Yale boys,  _ needs to be fed gluten free dinner. Even when he’s not here he’s getting in the way of us.

Bon Jovi has ended and has been replaced with loud David Bowie. You turn and open your eyes.

“Hey,” you say, “Take me home.”

“Yes, sir.”

-

We walk the few blocks back to your house in complete silence. We’re both too turned on to make small talk. Finally, we’re on your stoop looking over all of Bank Street. You turn to face me and I can see the lust in your eyes. You lean forward to mess with my coat before leaning back to smirk. I know your bullshit game, Peter. And I might have fallen have I not seen you pull this with other men.

“This was nice,” you purr.

“It really was,” I say. No purr. “You’ve got an early morning so you better head to bed soon.”

The look on your face is beyond adorable. You’re conflicted and it suits you, Peter. I’m this hot older guy who probably doesn’t get it in as much as I used to and here comes this cute, smart younger boy, who looks like jailbait, who is practically throwing himself at me, that I’ve denied. You nod, embarrassed for failing and pissed because you think you weren’t sexy enough.

You’re pissed and I know that blue pillow is going to take a beating tonight. You’re going to think of me and then get pissed at yourself again because you really, really wanted me. You’ll get sick with want and realize that you’re going to have to wait for me. The same way Mark Ruffalo had to wait for Jennifer Garner for twenty-seven years, the same way America waits for new Stephen King releases, the same way I wait for Jason to arrive for his shift, the same way Flash is waiting for me across town. You’re going to wait for me.

“Sweet dreams, Peter.”

You’re holding your door open when you say, “Sure you don’t need anything for the road?”

It’s your last attempt. I shake my head and wave as I walk down the street and don’t look back. I know you’re still standing there watching me because I haven’t heard your door shut yet. You want me and you’ve got it bad enough that you might just beg for sex soon. But I won’t let you wait that long. Trust and believe, Peter. You’ll have me soon enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, as you can see this chapter is a lot longer than I usually post and I really wanted to make Tony and Peter's first date really good.


	10. 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony plays a game with Flash while waiting for Peter to talk to his friends about their date.

I head to the store on my way to the bookshop. I need to properly take care of my pet after all. I buy the cheapest liter of milk that says it’s expiring in three days and a value box of bland Cheerios at a gas station on my way home. Once I’m finally inside the shop, I shut the door and head to the back room. Before going to the basement I  _ rub one out  _ in your honor, Peter, letting my sticky cum stain a stray washrag hanging on the railing besides the basement door. I haven’t even fed Flash yet and it’s already two in the morning. How can I sleep when I’m waiting for you to text your friends about our date? I go downstairs and see Flash sitting on the ground, picking at his fingernails. Princess Flash sits up and I have to smirk at how resilient he is. I shove a box of Cheerios and milk into the glass box. He rips it out of the container and sniffs the milk.

“Is this almond milk?” He asks.

I roll my eyes and go to sit on the bench. Taking care of a pet is harder than it looks. Especially when you’re pet has a special disease called being an absolute pain. Flash eventually gives up and devours the liter carton of milk and digs his hands into the Cheerios box. I’m too busy at looking at your text messages to care. You haven’t sent anything to the group chat or to MJ.

“Tony, I’m stuck inside a fucking cage with nothing to do. If you won’t kill me, at least give me something to work with here,” Flash pleads.

The whiny, snobby fuck realizes he’s in a cage and still demands entertainment. He’s in a box full of the world’s most sought after books, some of the best books ever written and he’s whining about being bored. I toss your phone on the bench and stomp over to the bottom of the stairs where the unshelved books that have been delivered this week sit in boxes. I rip the first one open and grab one of the dozens of copies of Stephen King’s latest release. It’s ‘Doctor Sleep’ the long awaited sequel to ‘The Shining’. I read it and quickly started questioning the integrity of King. I shove the boring horror melodrama into the box and point to it.

“Read it. I’ll be back in the morning. There will be a test, Flash. So fucking read this one.”

I walk up the steps and for the first time I don’t hear Flash calling after me. He’s probably stunned and pissed because for once he actually has to read. Reading is not relating to it. Reading is reading. One day, Peter, there will be a world where people like us don’t have to live next to people like Flash. But that day isn’t coming soon and it won’t come at all if I don’t have you first. I go upstairs and lay on the couch by the nonfiction section. I turn on that Bon Jovi song and watch scenes of ‘13 Going on 30’ on mute and scroll through your Instagram again. My phone gets hot after an hour and I turn it off. I surround myself with you and it’s all that I can do until I fall asleep.

I think I dream of you. But it’s hard to say because when the second I close my eyes it’s already light outside. I sit up and look out the shop window to see dawn beginning to break. Now I have to do back downstairs to see if Flash learned to follow directions.

What a sight, Peter. Flash isn’t just reading Stephen King, he’s devouring it. His eyes are glued to the pages and I can tell he’s made it pretty far already. I start to applaud from the bench and of course Flash drops the book and fakes a yawn. He wants to give up and go to bed. I shake my head and start walking over to the counter where I usually fix broken spines and damaged covers.

“Not yet, Flash. It’s time for a club soda test,” I say as I reach into the cabinet underneath, pulling out three paper cups.

“But you told me to read King.”

I line the cups on the counter and carry them to the box as I say, “And you did. You read a book. Congratulations.”

Here’s comes the whining. Princess Flash says his tummy hurts and he’s too tired to drink soda and that it’ll mess up his digestive system. He starts complaining about being allergic to something in the coating of the book cover and that his head hurts from reading so much. He even asks for a band aide. What am I, his fucking nanny?

“It’s time for the test, Flash,” I have to affirm to him.

He shakes his head and says, “Just another hour, seriously. I’m intolerant to dairy and that cereal tasted like shit. My taste buds aren’t ready.”

“Maybe club soda will settle your stomach.”

“Please,” he begs.

“Think about this. You’re in my cage, I’m your only way of survival, and you’ve already lied to me. Don’t push anymore buttons, Flash.”

Flash sits back down and balls his hands into fists. He’s crying again when he looks back up at me.

“I’m not a bad person,” he says.

“I know you’re not,” I tell him.

He really isn’t a bad person, Peter. He’s just the worst kind of good person. He’s not bad enough to condemn but he’s not good enough to like. He enjoys life by focusing on himself and not caring about the affect his actions have on others. He’s the worst at being good but also the worst at being evil. It irritates me that he’s not racist or sexist or something horrible to make me hate him. He’s just plain annoying and that isn’t enough to justify death.

“So, how was that King?” I ask.

“Eh,” he shrugs.

He hasn’t learned a fucking thing, of course. I reline the cup of soda in the box and close it.

“I’m trying to be civil and nice. I gave you a copy of King to read and you can’t even give me your opinion on it.”

“Please, Tony. My dad has money, like serious cash. I get you anything you want. You don’t have a car, right? Do you want a car? I can get you a nice European car, fuck I don’t care, man. Anything kind you want,” he pleads.

I point to the box, “Alright, Flash. Time to get started.”

But he’s persistent and he keeps rambling and now he’s shaking again. “Wait, fuck, no. Please, Tony. I mean it, I have  _ money.  _ Anything you want.”

I step back and watch him spiral into another fit of sobbing and begging and pleading. I’ve only hit him a few times, I’ve kept him comfortable in a well lit cage, I’ve even continued his life for him so no one worries about him; and he’s afraid of me like I’m some scary monster. It’s almost funny how much he fears me but also hates me at the same time. He falls to his knees and in his sobs I can hear him mention drugs and dying and soda. I tap on the glass.

“It’s not drugged. Scout’s honor,” I smirk and mimic the Scout salute.

Flash gets up and sighs, “Thank God.”

“Listen, this is a test. Each cup has clubs soda in it,” I explain, “You’re going to tell me which cup has Home Soda in it. Get it?”

He shrugs, “I need something to cleanse my palate.”

“The Cheerios are a cleanser.”

He crosses his arms. “Were all bottles opened at the same time? All club soda changes depending on how long it’s been opened.”

I nod. “Yes, they were all opened at the same time.”

“I need glass cups. Paper cups are chemically treated. The chemicals could change the taste.”

“Drink,” I demand.

He reaches down to hold the cup. He sips the drink into his mouth and swishes it around, gargles it, and then spits it into the bucket he pisses in. I want to smash his fucking head in but I wait until he’s looking back at me, placing the cup back in the box.

“My father has a private jet. I can take you anywhere in the world you want to go to. Hand you the cash and book the ticket. My dad’s expecting me to blow money, it wouldn’t raise any flags. We can forget this ever happened, Tony.”

“Grab the Cheerios. Cleanse your palate,” I say.

“France, Sweden, South Africa, Ireland, Greenland. Seriously, Tony. You can anywhere. Everywhere.”

“Eat the Cheerios, Flash.”

He finally takes a step across the room to grab the box on the floor. He shoves a handful in his mouth and chews in the stale pieces. He puts it back down when he’s done and wipes at his face. I point to the second cup.

“Really, man. Think about what you want here,” Flash continues.

“Drink the next one, Flash.”

“This test isn’t valid anyway,” Flash complains, “I should be cleansing with salt water. The yeast and staleness of the cereal could interfere with how my taste buds recognize the sugar content in certain sodas.”

I’ve never raised my voice at him so when I do it I can see him tense and jump when I shout, “Drink the fucking soda.”

He immediately falls to his knees and starts crying again. It’s one part sickening to see a grown man beg for fucking salt water and another part satisfying to see him lose so much of himself by just yelling at him. Flash is not a man.

“Stand up,” I command.

He shakes his head and a tear falls, “Salt water, I’m begging you.”

“They don’t give out salt water in the Pepsi and Coke commercials when they do this shit.”

“Of course they don’t! They want those people to get it wrong. Do you know what distinguishes club soda from commercially marketed sodas like Coke and Pepsi?” He whines.

I groan.

“It’s salt, Tony! I swear it. I didn’t start this company because I don’t understand soda. I do, Tony. Please, I need salt water before the next one.”

“Stop the bullshit, Flash. You’ve lied to me before.”

Flash is quick to defend himself. He stands up and shakes his head. “No, listen. I’m not bullshiting you. This is what I do for a living. It’s what I know. No bullshit. I promise.”

I nod and walk away. I grab your phone from the bench and check your texts again but nothing. I walk up the stairs so fast I’m worried I’ll break them. Flash calls after me but I ignore him. If it wants salt water, he’ll get fucking salt water. I shuffle through cabinets in the backroom until I find an already opened package of plastic cups. I run one cup under the sink in the bathroom until it’s full of lukewarm tap water. I know for a fact I don’t have a salt shaker here but I make do with the salt packets Jason keeps in the front counter because the fucker likes to order food and eat in front of my customers. I open maybe sixty of the fucking things and let the sparkling salt mix into the water. I use an unsharpened pencil laying on the counter to stir it.

In two minutes I’m sitting the cup in the box and waiting for Flash to interject. He looks at me and then the cup. I don’t have all morning for this, it’s already past six which means you’re getting ready for school. I should be watching you leave, waiting on my hands and knees for your follow up email about our date, but instead I’m waiting for Princess Flash to take a fucking guess.

“Gargle it.”

Flash reluctantly takes the cup and gargles the salt water like he’s at the dentist. He spits it back in the piss bucket and places the rest in the glass box again. I’m not unfair, Peter. I’m really not. If I wanted Flash to fail I wouldn’t have supplied the Cheerios or the salt water. I’m giving him a fair chance because even assholes deserve a shot. And I know that Flash was babied his entire life. He was spoiled and told he was someone special just because he was richer than the rest of us. His nannies let him do anything he wanted while mommy and daddy made the money. He told me all of this his second night here after admitted to me he paid for every essay he turned in at Yale. Flash says he’s too sensitive to read. He read the first thirty pages of ‘Divine Comedy’ and loved it so much he had to stop. I wanted to beat the shit out of him again that night.

“Now drink the second one,” I tell him.

Flash takes the next cup and holds his nose while drinking it. What am I going to do with him, Peter? He’s never been punished for anything he’s ever done. His life is a series of fuck ups followed by praise and acceptance. He puts the cup down and makes a face. He gargles more salt water and it’s hard not to notice how much he’s changed since being here. He has wrinkles on his face in obvious places a twenty-two year old should have them and his hands are more calloused and tough. In a way he looks like he’s growing up for once. The poor soul.

I don’t have to tell him to drink the last cup. He does so and again makes a face like he’s tasted something foul. He crushes the empty cup and throws it back into the open box. He cards his hands through his dirty, thick hair like he’s being tested on life and death and not fucking soda.

“Which was Home Soda?” I ask.

“It doesn’t matter because Home Soda means more than the taste. It’s wealth and meaning. You know it’s all cruelty free, right?”

I roll my eyes, “I don’t care. The taste matters, any idiot can tell the difference between Coke and Pepsi.”

“That’s different. Those are commercialized sodas sold across the globe. My stuff is organic and fresh. It’s healthy and respectable. I’m not a ninety-nine cent soda man, Tony.”

“Which was Home Soda?” I repeat.

Flash shakes his head, “How do I know you’re even telling me the truth?”

“Because I’m not a fucking liar, unlike you.”

“You know that I know you’ll never kill me, right?” Flash is trying to retain some level of authority.

“Which was Home Soda?”

“You’re too smart to kill me,” Flash rambles, “You know that I have people looking for me. If I were to go missing for too long people would realize something is up. You’re not dumb, see, I know you, Tony.”

I’m already irritated that you’re wide awake and still haven’t told anyone about our date. Now Flash is sitting here bitching at me and thinks he knows me. Of course he doesn’t fucking know me. He just wants to think he does so he can pretend to be safe here. I’m even more irritated because in a way, he’s right. You should see his texts, Peter. So many people text him everyday wondering where he is, if he’s okay, when they can see him. He knows he’s loved and he knows that I know because I have his phone. The stupid shit takes the second cup again and sips the last of it.

The beloved Flash says, “Not this one.”

He looks back at me and I know he’s trying to cheat through this. He’s trying to get me to have a reaction. But I stand still, silently watching him plunge himself into another fit of confusion. He walks back and looks at the cup with his finger resting on his chin.

“Well?” I ask.

“This isn’t the ideal circumstance for a taste test.”

“Life isn’t fair,” I say.

“The air’s too musty and the lighting is too bright,” he complains.

“Which was Home Soda?” I repeat for the hundredth time.

He starts shaking his head and starts crying. Again. I ignore him and check your phone. It’s nearing seven now and I know you’re on your way to school. I refresh your email to see you’ve sent something to a teacher labeled ‘AP Calc Test Retake?’ to a Mr. Jones. I get jealous for a second, but school comes first in your world so I try to ignore the heat rising up. You have to worry about school. It’s just school, I tell myself.

“Flash, which cup was Home Soda?”

“None of them?” He says after wiping his eyes.

“That’s your fucking answer?” I spit.

He stammers, “Wait, maybe ..”

“No, Flash. It’s a yes or no question. It’s either Home Soda or not. I’m getting tired of your fucking games.”

“Fuck! I-I … They all tasted like shit, okay? Like bottom of the barrel, dollar store, knock off soda infused with fucking oil. They tasted terrible. What else do you want me to say?”

“And that’s your finally answer?”

“Yes.”

I smirk and it feels so good to watch his lower lip quiver, I move forward. “Sorry, Flash. But they’re all Home Soda.”

You get an email back from Mr. Jones:

_ Let’s discuss this another day after school. That was a big grade and I know maintaining your A means a lot to you. It’s hard to see you slipping up in my class. Maybe we can assign extra credit. Are you free next week? _

Flash flares, “No. No, it wasn’t.”

Who the fuck is this guy? What kind of teacher doesn’t let a student make up a test? Come on, Peter. Text Harry. Text Ned. Text anyone, I need to see that you’re interested. This needs to work out.

“Tony, there’s seriously no way those were mine. I know my product!”

I sigh, “Maybe you don’t. It’s called quality control, Flash. The first thing you learn in business school is how to control your product and you can’t even do that. If half of what you sell tastes like that and the other half tastes decent no one will buy your shit.”

He sits on the floor and I can tell he’s ashamed of himself. I would feel bad for him if it he wasn’t a nuisance. Now he’s got a stomach full of cow milk and shitty soda. He looks back up at me.

“So, what now?”

I don’t answer. He doesn’t deserve because he failed his test. I walk up the stairs and shut the light off. He complains that he needs the light. Looks like I got him hooked on King. I turn the light back on and slam the door. He’s going to read a book for the first time in his miserable life.

I pull out your phone and see a new message from MJ. She’s telling you good morning and asking about our date. You text her back. It’s only two words but it’s enough for me.

_ Different. Hot. _

-

It’s Friday night which is usually my quiet nights in where I look at your social medias and think of you. Not different from any other night, really. But I’m sitting in this cab with you and I’m nervous and worried and kinda impressed. When you asked me after school if I wanted to go to a party with you, I was a little surprised. Meeting the friends is usually a ‘we’re-already-dating’ type of date. Steve didn’t start bringing over Bucky until two months in. But you emailed me only three hours ago and it was sudden and fast like you weren’t so sure yourself.

_ Hey there’s a party at my friends house tonight. Big social event thing. I’m not big into parties and I figured you aren’t either. Want to be uncomfortable together? I know it’s weird but she’s nice and the people there will be nice. Interested? _

Of course I was going to come. I wouldn’t pass down the opportunity to be with you but something about being in a crowded party feels childish. You’re seventeen so of course parties are your age groups  _ thing.  _ The only problem is that I know I won’t belong and I really don’t want to be seen as a pervert invading a teenage party. And if there’s alcohol (which I’m assuming there is knowing your love drinking) I don’t want to be the only person of drinking age blamed for buying a bunch of high schoolers booze.

I’m impressed because you haven’t just invited me to a party, you’ve invited me to a fucking  _ Salinger _ house party. Like the great J. D. Salinger, author of one of the best books ever written ‘The Catcher in the Rye’. You told me your friend MJ is related to the late author. I can’t believe I’m about to meet one of of J. D. Salinger’s relatives, on our second date no less. We’re getting closer and with every turn the cab takes the more nervous I get. I’m worried everyone will hate me and you’re worried every will hate me, too. I can see you fidget with your blazer buttons. I never noticed the expensive dress piece in your room before. It’s a dark blue like the color of your pillow, and you’re wearing beige slacks to match with a black polo underneath. You look unrecognizable in all of this. I’m only sporting a button down and jeans with my Adidas. One of us is going to look out of place and you know it and you’re worried

“So, how is she related to him?” I ask.

You sigh, “It’s just a know thing. No one asks. He was so private.”

I nod and start to see why MJ is so anti social media. I get overwhelmed and it sucks not being prepared for this date. I had all week to think of ways to get you to love me for the Bistro date. But this was sudden and I don’t know MJ at all and I’m rusty. You look out the window, away from me. I have to remind myself why I’m here. You find me  _ Different. Hot.  _ And nothing can change that.

But you’re distant and cold to me. This cab ride has been going on for way too long without any spark between us. You scowl at the driver as he makes a wrong turn.

“I said Upper  _ West  _ Side, not Upper  _ East  _ Side.”

Your blazer looks like it costs a fortune and your face is stone hard and you’re hands are balled into fists and I feel like I picked up the wrong Peter. You can sense my unease and you turn back and blush. You look guilty and embarrassed.

“I’m sorry, I’m not trying to be bitchy. I’m just nervous,” you affirm.

Thank God. I tease you, “Me too. I’m worried your friends won’t like you.”

You laugh and there’s finally color back in your cheeks. You lean closer to me and I’m so fucking grateful that this cab ride ended with us laughing. Now you’re telling me about some boy you met when you and your aunt and uncle rode out to Nantucket for vacation. You tell me about how he might have been the first boy you ever had a crush on and how sweet he was with you. You tell me he probably wasn’t gay, that he was just nice, but you fell hard for him. You were a summer love cut short when your family had to go back to the city. It’s sweet to see you reminiscence but I can’t believe I’m getting jealous over a  _ twelve year old boy. _

“He meant a lot to me,” you finish.

“You still talk to him?”

“No, of course not,” you smile.

We’re quiet for a bit and I feel myself being pulled to you. You slide over and when I look back up you’re already looking back at me. You smile and blush and I want to bring my hands up to wrap around your face to kiss you but your phone starts buzzing. You move away to pull it out and look at the caller ID.

“It’s MJ,” you start, “She freaks out if I don’t answer the phone right away.”

“Is she as crazy as Uncle J. D.?”

You don’t laugh at my joke. You answer the phone and greet her. She’s so loud I can hear from the phone without it being on speaker.

“Yeah, we’re almost there,” you say.

I hear her shout into the phone, “You are not a  _ we,  _ Peter!”

You hang up and put the phone back into your blazer pocket. Our vibe is officially killed. I try cracking another joke, but your face is hard as stone again.

“Mr. Salinger’s niece seems like a piece of work,” I try.

You shake your head, “She’s not his niece, Tony.”

I don’t like the way you say my name and I don’t like how much control MJ has over you. You’ve shut down again just because of something she said. I should shut up but I can’t.

“I don’t get it. She’s related to one of the best authors ever and she won’t talk to anyone about it. And you’re really good friends with her, right? It doesn’t add up,” I say.

“Boundaries, Tony,” you say and I hate it. I hate the way you say and it makes me love you a little less.

You’re pushing me away on our second date even though you think I’m  _ Different. Hot. _ You’re afraid to love and it’s sad that you let it over take what could be great. We could be great, but you think you’re closed off to it. We’re finally here and I don’t want to walk into a room full of young adults smoking expensive hookahs and drinking fancy wine. The doorman opens the cab door and helps you out. I wanted to do that for you.

“Come on, I don’t want to be late,” you say from outside the cab.

I pull myself out of the cab and walk to you. I can’t help but notice you said ‘ _ I  _ don’t want to be late’ and not ‘ _ We  _ don’t want to be late.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really, really loved writing this one! More stuff with Flash and Tony will be coming soon as well as Peter and Tony's date that is already looking like it's set up for disaster. Please don't forget to tell me what you thought in the comments!


	11. 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony is introduced to Peter's mysterious friend MJ and tries to survive their second date.

We’re sitting in an old elevator with gated doors instead of metal ones. You’re standing too far away of me and the look on your face is hard to read. I cough and think of scooting closer to you but I know you’ll just find an excuse to move away again. You card a hand through your hair, sweeping it to the left and then to the right, but ultimately give up on it and let it fall however it pleases. You sigh and I’m so fucking nervous I could melt away into these wooden floor boards of this elevator.

“So, she lives in a penthouse, huh?” I try to make conversation.

You go back to fixing your hair and give me a curt nod. I want to be here with you. But not with this Peter. I want my Peter. I want the Peter who flirted with me at my bookstore and bought me a copy of ‘Wonderland’. I want the Peter I laughed with on the Union Square steps. I don’t want pretentious Peter. With every floor we ascend you’re starting to look more and more like Flash.

“Does MJ go to school with you?” I ask, making sure not to say Midtown High.

You nod and after ages finally say, “Yeah, but I’ve known her since forever. We met at camp when we were little.”

“Camp?” I ask.

“You’re gonna laugh. But we were roomates at the Southampton Club in the fifth grade. My aunt and uncle made me go because my uncle’s coworker had gotten a free enrollment discount for being the relative of one of the winter camp owners. He didn’t have any kids himself so he gave it to my Uncle Ben who -”

I cut you off, “Dear God. They made you go to _tennis_ camp?”

We both abruptly laugh for a solid few seconds. You look up at me and you’re blushing, clearly embarrassed. This is the Peter I want. I smile at you and you blush deeper and bury your head in your hands.

“I know! It was horrible. But my uncle had already said yes and it was a free eight week program coupon for the summer season. That usually costs like ten grand! So they shipped me off to upstate New York and I was basically miserable for eight weeks playing tennis with rich kids I didn’t know.”

“Ah, that makes sense. So you met here there along with the other rich kids,” I say.

“Mhm. She hated it, too. So we just hung out and skipped practice like everyday. It was the worst summer ever but we became best friends after that.”

We look at each other and smile. You look at me and I can see you bite the inside of your cheek. You gaze and I know you’re thinking of something we shouldn’t be doing on this elevator because you think I’m _Different. Hot._ I don’t ask permission to touch you. I bring my hand up to swipe at a spot on your cheek smudged with a speck of dirt. You swallow and continue to stare at me. I’m the first to look away and smirk knowing I’ve got you right where I want you.

“Anyway,” you say, flustered, “She knew my friend Harry because his dad works with her dad, and she introduced me to Ned in middle school. She’s like the connector.”

“That’s cool.”

“She’s a genius, too. She’s not like other rich people. Plus, it ain’t like all rich people are bad. Some just need a normal life.”

I laugh and you blush with an accusatory, “What?”

“Aren’t you a writer? Pretty sure ‘ain’t’ is frowned upon in literature,” I tease.

You go from beet red to a lustful pink and lean closer to me. I’m startled by the sudden change in the mood. You smile slyly at me and I think my dick twitches in rapid succession but I can’t tell because you place your hands on my shoulders.

“Oh yeah? And what are you planning on doing it about it?”

You went from annoying to bitchy to plain mean to silent to friendly to suddenly lustful and turned on in all of sixteen minutes. I can’t wrap my head around you, Peter. Not many people can chew a person out and try to fuck them in the same sentence. Blame it on teenage hormones, maybe. But to me, you’re untamed and being unsure makes you horny. I play into it but only slightly. I lean towards you and smirk and keep your hands on my shoulders with my own. This would be the time to kiss you but the fucking elevator stops and marks it’s entrance into the penthouse with a small ding. You lean away and keep your hand in mine, entwining the fingers and dragging me into the open space.

As you lead me through the crowd I’m beyond amazed. It’s like we’re on the set of ‘13 Going on 30’ where all the New York City penthouses are real and huge and gorgeous, and you’re the beautiful, young, naive Jennifer Garner and I’m still goofy Mark Ruffalo in the same fucking button down. There’s kids who are way older than you hanging out on a gigantic red sofa crowding three guys with guitars. One girl shouts for an encore and the men start strumming the opening chords to ‘Hey Jude’ by The Beatles.

These kids aren’t high school assholes who piss their parents money away on expensive booze, these kids are Ivy league asshole who piss their parents money away on expensive booze. Dozens of well dressed, stuck up twenty-somethings are drinking out of wine glasses and not red solo cups and I’m starting to realize why you were so nervous bringing me here. I’m not like any of these people and you know it. We pass a crowded kitchen with huge white marble counters and enter a second loft area. You drag me to a sofa in the corner and I’m mesmerized by the gigantic painting overlooking the second living room.

“Tony,” you say, “This is MJ.”

Yes it is. She’s even taller than I expected and her black voluminous hair sweeps around her face in locks. She’s wearing the same jewelry and even the same black pants she was in the photos of her in your room. MJ is the mysterious, dark brooding girl who’s smile isn’t really a smile. She smiles that same distant smile and claps her hands like I’m a toddler she’s meeting for the first time.

“So this is Tony!” She over pronunciates.

She looks back at you and I get a sudden rush of doubt and worry. You look too small next to her and she looks too big next to you. You are from two entirely different planets. She’s old money and new traditions and you’re no money and zero traditions. Everything about this is off. How can someone like MJ be so close to someone like you?

“Nice to meet you,” I say with a smile plastered on my face.

“I love you already for not being pretentious,” she says, “Thank you for not bringing any wine. Me and Peter are like family. No gifts allowed.”

You look taken aback and even gasp. “Oh God, I’m sorry MJ. I completely forgot.”

She looks down on you. Literally. “It’s okay, babe. I just said I loved it. And besides, the last thing we need is more cheap wine.”

You look like you’re guilty of something. So I didn’t bring white wine, what’s the big deal? Are you supposed to bring wine to these types of events? She gently rubs your shoulder and smiles.

“Oh goodie! You’re wearing the blazer I bought you. You look so good in it, Peter. Blue’s your color.”

You nod and smile and she rubbing the fabric and wish I could tear apart that blazer and strangle her with the shreds. She doesn’t know how good you actually look in blue. How hard and fast you cum against that same color pillow at night.

“I’m stealing our boy for a few minutes, Tony,” she says as she eyes me up and down. Cunt.

But I let her steal you away and the two of you walk towards the end of the loft. I look around at the amount of people completely avoiding me. I must look like the fucking delivery guy dressed in a button down and slacks. No one’s even staring at me from across the room like I’m a spectacle. No one’s asking for my name or pretending they could be into me. I’m as alone as I could ever be in a room full of people my age. I’m out of my element and you’re not with me right now so everything is wrong.

I walk over to the kitchen with giant counters that’s holding dozens of bottles of alcohol. Look at all of the booze already here. Why would MJ even need me to bring wine? I hate MJ more than I can describe but you’re so glued not even I can pull you from her. I look over to see a beautiful Indian girl slip by me without looking to run her nose along a line of coke on the counter. Where the fuck are we, Peter? I pull out Flash’s phone to tweet:

_Bulldogs gotta bark, bark, bark all the time #bulldogs #yale #cocaininthemembrane_

I decide to look up this address on some realtor site. This penthouse is worth _twenty-four million dollars_. I find a link to a home and wellness blog that lists all of the fucking decor of the house. A picture of MJ and her parents are the header image as the blog goes on to list where the penthouse is located and how exactly the Salinger’s decorate their fucking mansion. MJ’s mother is even bigger and scarier then her and the only thing different about them is their skin color. Her mother must be where the J.D. Salinger blood comes from because her father is a stout man with a wide smile and a deep, black complexion.

I walk away from the kitchen and almost walk directly into a chestnut wardrobe in the long hallway connecting the living side of the penthouse to the sleeping side. I look up at the closet and smile. It’s actually quite beautiful with an engraved Catholic cross on the doors. Maybe me and this MJ have more in common than I thought. She’s Catholic but doesn’t practice (clearly) and neither do I despite being baptised as such. Now you’re both right besides me, watching as I run my hand along the wooden frame of the piece.

“Pretty cool, huh?” You say, “It’s been here since forever. I used to hide in it during games of hide and seek.”

I try not to imagine how hard it would be to play hide and seek in a home this huge. MJ is on the other side of you, staring at me while I flirt with my eyes towards you. You blush because you know I’m about to tease you for bringing up your childhood again but MJ is quick to smile at you and wrap an arm around your middle. I look away and back at the piece.

“It’s gorgeous. You know I was also raised Catholic, MJ,” I say.

“Oh, Tony,” MJ starts and I can already tell she’s going to correct me, “I’m not Catholic, I’m _Methodist._ But you’re too sweet.”

“Oh, cool,” I say and I want to go the fuck home.

Everything I say to your friend is somehow an insult or a joke, like I’m a peasant and she’s the queen and you’re her adversary. I hate this game of control over you. You cough and try to egg us on.

“You’re both native New Yorkers,” you pretend not to say through coughs.

I find the gesture endearing and cute but MJ swipes her shoulder like your cough left some toxic waste on her. She shifts her attention to me and gives me her fake smile again.

“Oh, which borough are you from?” MJ asks. Borough? Cunt.

“I’m from Bed-Stuy.”

“I hear more people are moving there. There was a fantastic article about it in the Times. I hope the gentrification doesn’t dilute all of the local color,” she says.

Local color? MJ Salinger doesn’t know anything about the oppression and poverty people who look like her have faced in Bed-Stuy. She listened to something her history teacher taught her in tenth grade about the Black Power Movement in New York and decided she was all of a sudden an advocate. MJ wouldn’t know real struggle if it hit her in the face. She’s so privileged she calls black people ‘coloreds’. I have never wanted to hit someone so much before.

You’re nervousness about us meeting is blinding you from how much your friend hates me. You shift your eyes from person to person, hoping for once that someone you care about will like MJ. I don’t. But I’ll pretend that I do for you, Peter. I didn’t ask her what she’s going to college for but she’s telling me anyway.

“You see, I want to be an architect,” MJ says, “Design buildings.”

I know what a fucking architect is you fucking cunt. No one’s an architect in real life, only in sad Lifetime movies. Did you tell her I was dumb or something?

“That’s cool,” I say.

“No, what’s cool is the fact that you didn’t go to college,” she gushes, “I’m such a follower. My parents went to Brown so I’m going to Brown.”

I smile and retort, “My parents didn’t go to Brown, so I didn’t go to Brown.”

MJ looks at you and smiles, “He’s funny, Peter. No wonder you like him so much.”

You hadn’t expected that and now you’re blushing. I eye MJ and see the look of content on her face and then she goes straight back to poker face. She knew what she was doing and she wanted to see your reaction. You give me a smile while MJ goes on about the ramifications of college and university life. She talks about it like she hasn’t already decided on going to Brown. We’re too mesmerized in each other to hear her. Suddenly, there’s her hand on your shoulder and she’s preaching.

“I mean, Peter’s not going to an Ivy League school. He’s not even going to MIT. I wish I wasn’t a sheeple, you know?”

I’m almost too stunned to move for a second. You don’t know that I know about your deferral from MIT, so I try to stay undeterred. But I desperately want to push you away and pummel this bitch to the ground. You look up at her for a second and then back down. What the fuck kind of friends do you have? MJ is horrible, a hundred times worse than I imagined. She’s a hypocrite and a cunt and a rude bitch to everyone. You are soft and she’s hard and stone cold in tight latex black pants you would never wear. You ooze joy and she is an open wound, infecting us all.

She has her hand wrapped so tight around your shoulder and I know it’s a signal for me to leave you two alone for another minute. I glance around and try looking for a way out.

“Sorry, but I need to use the bathroom. Where is it?”

You point me in the direction of the bathroom and as I walk away I can hear MJ ask you about Ned and Harry not being able to come over. She begs you to text Harry, to ask why he can’t come at the very least. I’m sure you give her some bullshit excuse, but I know for a fact that you didn’t even ask them to come in the first place. They would have said no anyway; they hate MJ and you know it. I can’t blame them for it. If MJ was a dog, shooting her would be the humane thing to do. But I can’t very well shoot her.

What I can do is search for the library I saw in the blog. On the opposite side of the first living room is a wide wooden door that leads to the personal library. I step inside and turn on the light adjacent to the wall and gasp. It’s that beautiful. The Salinger’s don’t mess around when it comes to literature, as they should. It’s full of huge mahogany bookshelves from floor to ceiling and every shelf is lined with first editions and rare copies. I run my fingers along a line of perfectly spined volumes. I pull out a copy of ‘Brave New World’ and smile at it’s sheer perfection. MJ’s parents might not have raised her right, but they sure do take care of their books. I’m putting the book back in the slot when you and MJ walk in. I quickly turn around, hoping I’m not in any kind of trouble.

MJ laughs, “We figured we’d find you here. I would let you borrow one but my parents are crazy about them. They treat them like babies.”

“No it’s fine,” I say and I didn’t ask to borrow a fucking book.

In seconds you’re on my side and linking your hand into mine again. It feels amazing and I’m almost too stunned to hear you speak to me for a moment. You look up and there’s this beautiful twinkle in your eyes that I never want to leave.

“Isn’t it beautiful, Tony?”

“Yeah,” I say truthfully, “I could spend years in here.”

“I know,” you say and tug on my arm a bit, pulling me to look at the shelves around us, “Tony, I bet you’ve read more books than there are in here.”

MJ interrupts; looks like she feels left out of our love. Too bad. “Why of course. A good businessman should know his product.”

I want to roll my eyes. I sell books and swipe counters, I’m not an investor and I’m not an expert. Everything has to be nicer in MJ’s eyes. The Ivy League shits start singing ‘Sweet Virginia’ and it’s shaky and off beat because half of them don’t know the words. Suddenly you pull me out of the library because Mj wants to be out of the library. I would object but your hand is still holding mine so I let you fall under her spell, as long as I’m still holding onto you. MJ leads us into the dining room and asks you to check your phone. You pull your hand away from mine and I frown. You announce you have a text from Harry. He’s affirmed that he’s not coming.

MJ huffs, “You know, if I were Harry, I wouldn’t show up either. Think of how embarrassing it would be. I mean, what guy here _hasn’t_ he slept with? Pardon my crassness, Tony.”

I smile in affirmation and you give me a small shrug. You’re starting to accept that I might not like MJ but I can at least tolerate her and that’s all you need at this point. MJ crosses her arms across her chest and gestures to the even bigger pile of booze on the dining room table. There has to be at least twice as many bottles as there are on the kitchen counter.

“Pick your poison, Tony,” MJ commands.

“Vodka,” I shoot back and smile. MJ doesn’t.

“Rocks?”

“Only if they’re the little ones,” I joke.

She looks to you and then back at me and guffaws. “Excuse me?”

“I hear crushed ice works better with vodka than cubes,” I say.

I smile as she fumes. I learned that from Flash hilariously enough. Something about the way the ice is shaved. I wasn’t paying attention but the man is a drug abuser and has a history with alcohol so I believe him. You can feel the tension in the air and you start fumbling with the hem of your blazer, praying a tunnel will magically appear to get you out of this situation. MJ looks like she’s about to blow and I know I need to fix this before you run.

“Any ice you have is fine, MJ.”

“Why that’s awfully kind of you, Tony,” MJ sneers. She turns to you and smiles, “Sweetness, what do you want?”

“I’ll have vodka soda,” you say.

She glares at me as she turns to the table behind us. “Nice and easy.”

She starts pouring the drinks at the table and your fingers twitch and I can feel your want. I wrap my hand around yours and you smile. A few guys walk by, one with a bag of coke announcing he’s starting a line. Two of his friends are eyeing you down like you’re meat. I can tell that there’s a lot of guys here who have fucked you and I’m starting to get pissed. Right before I turn to the assholes, MJ is back with our fixed drinks and handing them to us.

“Are the rocks small enough for you, Tony?” She simpers.

“Yeah, of course. I was only joking.”

She doesn’t say anything else as she migrates us to the kitchen. Now we’re standing around the cluttered counter and there’s less people because everyone wants to do a line with the guy in the dining room. Our hands aren’t together yet again and it feels lost without you. I let my unoccupied hand travel across the table until I see a pop of pink peek out from behind a copy of yesterday’s Times. I pull out the object and almost laugh. It’s a CD of the ‘13 Going on 30’ soundtrack.

“Nice tunes,” I say as I grip the CD.

Both sets of eyes are on me and the CD. MJ says, “You’re a fan of it, too. Huh, Tony?”

Suddenly some girl from school is there hugging her and they’re screaming ‘OMG I haven’t seen you in _forever!_ ’ I look over at you and your vodka soda is already gone. You look tired and stressed and I want to rip you away from all of this. But now MJ’s back and she’s running a finger around the rim of her glass.

“I love it too, Tony. I’ve seen the movie a hundred times,” she says through a sigh.

“I’ve seen it a thousand times,” I say and why am I competing?

She tells me I win and then looks back at you to show her approval. She could’ve been nice from the get-go and we wouldn’t have had to suffer through the awkward insults we half-assed at each other. Now she’s going on about other favorite movies and you mention ‘Hannah and Her Sisters’. MJ’s smiling and clapping her hands while talking and it’s almost not entirely annoying. She certainly knows how to give off the wrong impression.

“Oh my God, ‘Hannah and Her Sister’s? Best Woody Allen movie ever,” she says.

I smile and nod my agreement and toss the CD down a little too hard. It plops on the counter with a hard plastic splat and MJ is seething holes into my face with her eyes. Her kindness lasted all of three seconds. Your hand is on my shoulder and why do you have another drink in your hand already? And how? I ignore it because you lean into me and smile.

“What’s your favorite scene, Tony?” You ask, your words weighted by the alcohol in your system.

“Oh, definitely the end. Where Dianne tells him she’s pregnant. I’m a total romantic.”

MJ’s face contorts and I can tell she’s disgusted. “Are you serious?”

“Absolutely. When they kiss in the mirror and start to fall in love again? It’s great.”

You press two fingers against my side and it feels good but I know it’s a bad touch. You want me to stop talking. I would look down but MJ is staring so hard I think there’s pain forming behind my eyes. Someone out in the loft shouts and the guitar is being strummed again. The beginning of ‘Hey Jude’ plays again and I already have a headache.

“Huh,” she begins, “You know that that scene is the one scene Woody didn’t want in the film at all, right?”

I shake my head. Did she just refer to him as Woody? “What? There’s no way that’s true.”

“Um, actually it’s true. It’s the truth, I would know,” she retorts.

You’re pulling away from me and I can see your head shift around. You want to escape but we’re the only people here you know that you haven’t fucked so you stay quiet but distant. MJ is gawking at me and she’s so pissed it looks like she might boil over.

“No offense,” I say meaning everything I’m about to say with full offense, “But I doubt that’s true. He was a legend. They let him do his own thing, you know?”

“I _would_ know. My grandfather worked at that studio and he wrote that happy ending. Woody hated it, but my grandfather was the man in charge, the guy. _The_ guy.”

“Oh, so your grandfather’s _not_ J.D Salinger,” I say because fuck her, “And here I was thinking your parents gave you an acronym name to honor him.”

She’s seething with rage and she gives you a quick look. You’ve already snaked away from me and now you’re on the other side of the counter.

“Anyways, it’s just funny that your favorite scene is the one he hated. And it’s Michelle Jonah. My name’s not MJ it’s just what I prefer to be called.”

“Hey,” you say, “Do you have any soda?”

“Yeah, of course,” MJ says while smiling at you. She turns back to me and smirks, “There’s a case of Home Soda in the fridge.”

Fucking cunt. She knows that I know about Flash and this is her way of jabbing at me. Fine. I’ll take the hit. I nod slowly while you take a glass from the counter and begin pouring yourself a drink. Hopefully you’re done with booze for the night because I don’t want a repeat of Greenpoint.

I raise my glass of vodka. “To your grandfather.”

“To the man who slapped happy endings to the end of everything he worked on? A man who didn’t bother to see his children or donate his fortune to charities because he was too busy ruining the endings of every great picture to come to America in the eighties? No. No, Tony. You don’t want to toast to that man,” MJ snaps.

I can see you practically curl in on yourself in the corner of the counter. This isn’t going well and me and MJ aren’t going to stop any time soon. But you let us go at it. Do you not care or are you just too drunk to think? I look over to see your glass is full of red juice, probably cranberry. I smile because you might not be sober enough to help in our fight but you’re coherent enough to chose me over Flash. It’s a win in my book.

“It’s no big deal,” you suddenly say, “It’s just a movie, MJ.”

I can’t even hide my smile because you’ve intervened. You didn’t just step in, you chose my side. MJ is rolling her eyes and trying to shrug it off while she takes her glass and dumps it in the sink behind her.

I raise my glass again. “To you, MJ. For schooling me on my favorite movie.”

She looks at you and you smile. I can read your eyes. You’re saying ‘Yeah, he’s just that good’. She looks back but she’s not impressed. I smile even sweeter and tip my drink in her direction.

“Wow, MJ. I could pick a part your brain for hours. Seriously, you know a lot about the film industry. And we both love Woody Allen.”

We sip after the toast but MJ doesn’t. She looks defeated but not pissed. At least she’s calm. She’s toying with the rim of her glass again and everyone goes silent. You’re close to me and I can smell you. After another minute of silence, your hand is once again wrapped in mine and it’s like I’m your support now and not MJ. I give her a telepathic middle finger. Directly after she’s staring at us and notices our hand holding. I almost start to believe she’s telepathic because she tilts her head back and smirks. She has one last quip of the night and I know she’s eager to tell it.

“Isn’t it weird kids our age like old movies like that? I mean, I’m just barely eighteen and Peter’s only seventeen and we’re still huge eighties film fans.”

The fucking cunt. She thinks I don’t know about your age and you don’t think I know about your age. Within seconds you’re peeling yourself away from me and your face goes red. I look back at MJ to see her face go from smirk to serious as you walk out of the kitchen and into the hall.

“What’s wrong, sweetness?” She calls after you. But you’re committed to making your dramatic exit.

She shrugs and turns back to look at me. We hold stares until she fake gasps. “Oh God. Did he not tell you?”

I want to punch this miserable, loveless bitch in the face but you’re out on your own alone. I need to comfort you so I drop my glass in the sink and walk out of the kitchen and in your direction. I glance around the crowded space and hope you haven’t run out just yet. I pass the wardrobe and look in the living room across from it. I push my way through heaps of college assholes wasted on rum and drowning it with Home Soda. I shove myself through the library door and find you sitting on the floor against a shelf, your face buried in your phone.

I slowly walk next to you. You don’t say anything but you don’t lean away when I sit down next to you either. I edge as close as I can to you and look over your shoulder to see you watching ‘Hannah and Her Sisters’. It’s the ending. You’re at the beginning of the mirror part and Woody Allen is feeling up Dianne Wiest and kissing her neck. I wrap my arms around you and you lean into me, laying your head down on my chest. I mouth the words when Woody Allen says ‘the heart is a very, very, very resistant muscle.’

You’re laughing and I’m smiling and we’re holding each other in a library full of books older than us. We watch the rest of the scene like that. Thank God for MJ’s grandfather.

-

It’s not even an hour later and the night is over. We’re waiting for the elevator while you text your aunt that everything is fine even and that you’ll be heading to bed soon. It opens and there’s no one inside and no one coming in with us. You don’t even wait until the doors are closed. Ever since our viewing of ‘Hannah and Her Sisters’ you’ve been closer to me and we avoided MJ for another forty minutes until she hugged you goodnight.

I don’t even have the lobby button pushed yet but you’re ripping your blazer off and throwing it the floor. You push your body against mine and shove your hands through my hair. You lean in and I take a breath and finally. Our lips were made for each other, Peter. You’re taking me in and I’m letting you explore me. My mouth, my heart, my soul. It’s all made for you.

We can still hear ‘Crazy for You’ by Madonna playing from MJ’s penthouse. You begged her to play the ‘13 Going on 30’ soundtrack and now we’re kissing and you’re falling in love with me like I’ve already fallen for you. It’s the same song that plays at the end when Jennifer Garner and Mark Ruffalo get married and eat Razzles on the couch they haven’t moved in yet to their new home.

Your tongue tastes like cranberries and not Home Soda. The blazer MJ bought you is getting trampled by us on the floor. The doors start to close and once we’re alone you start to pull away. But I pull you closer, grabbing your hair and kissing you deeper. I know how to leave you wanting more. And I do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for wait! School has been kicking my ass and this chapter was always going to be harder to write since I had to push my deep love for MCU MJ to the side and write her to be the biggest bitch in the universe. I really hope you guys like the way this is all coming together and that make out scene at the end. Had to include a little teaser of the sex scenes to come because of the wait. Don't forget to leave comments!


	12. 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony plans his next date with Peter but his paitence is tested by Flash.

I’ve made a colossal fuck up. I knew it the moment I hit send on my phone that I was moving too fast. I thought you were ready for us. You even gave me your number, Peter. Your  _ actual  _ number. No more emailing, no more stalking your social media. When you ignore me, I’ll know it for sure now and you know that. I thought because we were taking this step that you were ready. That’s why I texted you the day after MJ’s party to ask you out on a date to the movies. But your reply was swift and steeped in denial.

_ Already saw that one actually. And I’m still kinda hungover :( plus, I need to get back to writing. I’ll let you know when I’m free though. _

But I know you’re not hungover because you were barley drunk last night. You had two vodka sodas and cranberry juice, that’s not enough to intoxicate a toddler let alone a teen. And I know you haven’t seen the movie I suggested because you tweeted about wanting to watch it last weekend. And I also know you’re not writing. Unless by writing you mean texting your friends about fucking Flash.

Ned:  _ I thought you were over him. I don’t wanna rush you, but you need to let him GO! _

Harry:  _ Uggghh babe, seriously. Flash? Of all people to be caught up in. _ _  
_

You:  _ I know, I know. I should focus on the positive stuff but I’m still into him. _

Ned:  _ What about hot bookstore guy who saved your life? Tony seemed really great, didn’t you guys on a date last night? _

You:  _ Yeah. But I don’t want to get serious with him yet.  _

Harry:  _ Are you kidding me?!? Tony sounds fucckkkinng hot and you like him and he likes you! Why are you hangin back on Flash? Babe, it doesn’t make sense. Tony > Flash. _

Ned:  _ Literally anyone else > Flash _

You:  _ :( I’m not ready for anyone else, especially not Tony. I have total Flash brain right now. Ugh. _

Harry:  _ You better get over this because you need someone and fast! _

You can’t date me because you have “Flash brain” and I can’t kill Flash until  _ you  _ kill Flash. It’s been two days since our kiss, the kiss that will change your life. But you’re letting the love that you felt seep into you during that kiss wash away because Princess Flash needs rescuing. You and your friends go on about our date and how much of a bitch MJ still is. Harry asks about our kiss and you describe it:

_ Tony’s really intense. I don’t know … He’s a maybe. Anyway, do you guys think I should call Flash? _

Your  _ maybe  _ hurt worse than a wound because I thought you found me  _ Different. Hot.  _ Someone who is  _ Different. Hot.  _ should never be referred to as a  _ maybe.  _ There is nothing  _ maybe  _ about me and there was nothing  _ maybe  _ about our kiss. You said so yourself. We held each other on the cab ride to your home on Bank Street. You grabbed my hair and told me you liked it short and you weren’t drunk. You weren’t being slutty and we were sitting in a cab for Christ’s sake, Peter. You wouldn’t have been intimate with me if you think of me as a  _ maybe.  _ I try to stay calm. I know I won’t reach definite status until you’ve had the honor of receiving my cock. But this morning I woke up to your new tweet:

_ I’ve been sleeping on a problem for way too long now. Time to head to IKEA #brokenbed _

I kick the typewriter closest to me and shout at the pain. How could you put # _ brokenbed  _ out into the universe knowing I would see it? I don’t even want to think of you fucking anyone else right now, not when I’m this close. Even Harry and Ned are confused by the proclamation and Harry texts you:

_ Uh, broken bed? WTF?? _

You:  _ Not actually broken. Just old and creaky. May gave me money for it and offered to go but I was hoping you’d be up to a shopping spree? Bring Ned, too. IKEA adventure! _

I sigh in relief thanking God that you’re not fucking anyone else. Harry never responds to your text like the fucked up friend he is. You post an ad on reddit in the r/NewYorkers subreddit later that day. Only one serious taker replies but backs out when you ask if he can assemble. Upon learning that not everyone can bow to the whims of Peter Parker, you text me knowing full well that I will. 

_ Do you like IKEA? Wink, wink. _

It should be obvious that I do not at all like IKEA, but I text you back anyway and lie.

_ Love it actually. Why? _

You:  _ Wanna ride the boat up there with me? Meatballs on me :) _

Meatballs is a sad, sexless word that reiterates your  _ intense  _ attraction to me. I’m so  _ Different. Hot.  _ that I’ve been deemed free meatball worthy in your eyes. I want to cry a little but at least the guy from reddit wasn’t willing to be your personal slave for the day. It hurts knowing I wasn’t your first choice or even your second. But I don’t need a day date to IKEA to know that you like me. You told me while we held each other on the cab ride back to your Bank Street home.  _ I like you, I like you, I like you. _ You kept murmuring it to me and kissing my neck.

Me:  _ No meatballs required, but I’ll get on that boat with you. _

The boat is just a ferry that transport IKEA customers from one island to another. Makes it easy to transport big, over-priced Swedish furniture. I know we won’t have sex because there’s a reason the three date rule applies and we’re going to walking around in IKEA for fuck’s sake. If meatballs is the most sexless word, then IKEA is the most sexless furniture supplier.

I’m busy getting ready for our date and already you’re back to talking about Flash with your friends. You send a screenshot of Flash’s Twitter to the group chat and talk about how fucked up he is right now. He badly he needs help. Ned and Harry agree but are reluctant on sympathy.

You:  _ Have you seen those tweets? Scary, right? I’m worried about him. :( _

Those tweets are supposed to keep you away. You’re not supposed to feel empathy for this washed up drug addict who’s going on a binge who treated you like shit. Even your friends agree.

Ned:  _ I bet he’s staying with that rocker asshole on a boat to a rich island. Peter, he’s not worth it anymore. Let him get drugged up and ruin his life without ruining yours. _

Your friends are pricks but they’re right; you love too hard and forgive too soon. You agree but keep sending them the tweets until they ignore the group chat. You need to get over your mini melodrama over Flash. You deserve a life without him, to cut all ties. And you can’t fall in love with me if you’re still in love with him.

Like you, I’m a good person, Peter. I have big heart, that’s why I decide to grab Flash’s favorite things as a surprise treat for my pet. I grab a copy of the Times, a vegan burrito, a soy latte from Starbucks and the stash of drugs he had in his wallet from when he first got here. I’ve been carefully hiding the stash under the counter in the basement along with a half empty case of Home Soda.

I hand this all to him in the container and he knows greedily taking bites from the burrito and flipping through a Times tribute to Prince. He pouts and finishes the article after a while, sulking as he chomps into the vegan snack.

“He’s the reason I did so many good things and so many bad things. Miss that legend,” he sighs.

“Is he the reason you started doing drugs?” I ask as I hold up the plastic baggie.

Flash’s eyes are glued to whatever the fuck is in the bag. I haven’t bothered asking him about seeing as I never thought he’d be seeing them again. But here he is, eyeing the bag like his life depends on it. I wave it a little and his eyes manage to follow the damn thing. I laugh and chuck the bag into the container and close it. He quickly grabs it and looks at the contents, opening the bag and peering into it.

“I didn’t take any of your goodies, don’t worry. I don’t even know what the fuck that shit is.”

I take out his phone and tweet for him while he nods at me and quietly flips the Times closed.

_ Minor keys and drugs don’t make a roller skate jam but they make for a good time. #gotcrack #RIPPrince #Legend _

I hit tweet and it’s uncomfortably quiet. I look up and fuck me if Flash didn’t take the entire bag of whatever the fuck kind of mind numbing drug he loves. I call out to him. Nothing. He’s on the floor with white powder on his lip and sure, I thought he’d take a line or two to get himself high but not the entire thing. I pound on the glass and he moves slightly to the right. How long did it take me to come up with that tweet? Two minutes? How the fuck is he already feeling it?

I wish I could take a picture and send it to you so you could see what Flash really boils down to. It takes him another minute but finally he’s up and I’m so relieved he isn’t dead that I almost sigh out loud. I raise my fist and pound again on the glass.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

He laughs and rolls on the floor. He raises his arms up in mock defense. “Game over. Flash over. Kill Flash.”

“Quit the dramatics, I’m not in the mood,” I say and I’m really not.

It’s not entertaining trying to keep the most helpless, pathetic person in the world alive everyday. It’s a struggle just knowing he’s down here, having to feed him and provide for him like one would a toddler is an even bigger burden. Flash looks back up and smiles in pain and wipes the shit off his lip.

“Did you kill me yet?” He asks.

“Eat the burrito, Flash,” I warn.

“Why can’t you just kill me, Tony?” He whines.

“Shut up and eat it!” I scream and pound the glass again.

Flash cowers and then remembers that there’s glass separating us and just rolls his head back and laughs. I want to hurt him and make him stop laughing at my sherr anger but I can’t kill Flash until you do and this would be a lot easier if you just accepted that he’s an assholes and moved on.

Flash chuckles, “Tony, come on, man. Don’t you think it’s hilarious? That fucking whore stalks me for like a million years and here I am: Dead! Because now  _ you’re  _ stalking  _ him!” _

“Nobody here is a stalker.”

“Except for you, Tony,” Flash quips, “I’ve done lots of thinking in here, man. And I know you didn’t just find him in that subway. I know you followed him. And honestly? If you want him, you can  _ have  _ him! If you really don’t want to believe me when I say he’s crazy, fine.”

“Fine.”

He groans and laughs again and of course Flash would accuse you of being a stalker. All guys who treat people trash claim they’re the victims. I don’t want to be near him anymore and whatever he took doesn’t look like it’s going to kill him. I turn around and I’m about to head out before he calls me back.

“Tony, wait,” he says and he flips through the wallet I let him have back and slips a card into the container.

I walk over and open it to examine the card. “What’s this?”

“It’s a key to a storage locker. I’m a klepto, man. Been stealing since I can remember. There’s tons in there, Tony. Seriously expensive shit.”

“I have things to do,” I bark.

“I’m serious! The address is on the back. If they ask for your name tell them you’re Holden Caulfield.”

“You’re not Holden Caulfield.”

“I am to the guy who rented me the locker,” he smiles like the piece of shit he is, “‘The Catcher in the Rye’, it’s the only book I’ve ever read.”

Of course it’s the only book he’s ever read. I want to squeeze the life out of him but I can’t because my hands are being occupied by my phone when I feel it vibrate against me. It’s you.

_ You ready? _

I swipe up to respond and Flash laughs. “Seriously, bro. He’s not worth it.”

Flash starts nodding off as I text you back and he better not die. I want him to die an honorable death. Not while he’s sad and high and pissing his pants. He starts singing Prince; “ _ Oh he’s falling, falling, falling in love. He’s falling deeper every day. He’s breaking your heart and taking you away.”  _ The prick knows those aren’t the lyrics but he’s changing it to taunt me. I pound the cage again and yell at him to stop.

“Ha! Tony’s mad,” he drools and whines as whatever he took takes him through the worst of it.

I finally manage to text you back:

_ Soon. Need an hour, work is tough today. _

“He’s craaaazzzyyy, Tony,” Flash drones and shakes his head.

I tell him he’s an addict, that he’s a washed up nobody but my voice is weak. He laughs more and I could easily do him in right now, Peter. I could do it and I wouldn’t feel bad, not in this particular moment. But we have a date and I have to get ready.

“Wanna know about Peter? I’ll tell you about Peter, Tony. Peter’s like a gold digger but he’s not even after money. He’s after dick. Ha! My senior year of college, he knocked on my dorm room door and told me he was the maid. I knew he wasn’t the maid but I let him in and I didn’t even ask him to suck my dick. Didn’t have to ask him to scrub the toilet either! But he did. Do you see it, man?”

“Fuck yourself,” I tell him but I don’t sound very convincing.

I just my best to erase the image of you sucking his dick but I can’t.

“If he’s all about dick, then why is he all over me to go out today?”

To- _ day! _ ” Flash exclaims, “He can’t even give you a night! Come on, Tony. I know you’re not stupid.”

Flash hates you so much he loves it and you love him so much that you you hate it and I’m going to be sick.

“The date is today because we’re going to IKEA, fucker,” I say to end it all.

He’s silent for a moment and suddenly roars into laughter. “No fucking way! He used that same shit on me! Then he rode my dick on the new couch I bought. Then he went on about that stupid fucking red ladle. Tried to get me to go again to buy his aunt a fucking bed set.”

I don’t know about this stupid fucking red ladle and you text me back:

_ See you in forty-five minutes. Ready to get my IKEA fix in! _

You won’t ride my dick on your new bed and now you’re calling an IKEA trip your  _ fix  _ and Flash is imitating your voice.

“ _ Aww, Flaasssh. Take me to IKEEEAAA. You know I love it there, baby. Pretty please with red ladles on top?  _ Oh my fucking God, man. What a ride you’re in for!” Flash is still in hysterics.

I try to recollect myself and turn for the door but I hear the fucker mumble under his breath, laughing like the crazed junkie he is.

“I mean, seriously. If he wants someone to spank him with a fucking red ladle, get some perv on the internet to do it. You know, I was never into his weird roleplay shit anyway.”

Before I can finally clam myself, I’m opening the door to the cage and before Flash can run out, I throw him on the ground. He starts to laugh again but I give him a deserved punch to the face. He’s so stunned that for a second I think I might have knocked the high out of him. But then he’s cackling like a hyena and screaming from the floor.

“He’s a whore, Tony! I dick crazed bitch who’s going to ruin your life! Get out while you can, brother.”

I punch him five more times until he’s bloody and crying. I take the empty bag of drugs and flush it down the toilet in the back. I kick him in the side for good measure and lock the door behind me. I tell him thanks for the key card for the storage locker before shutting the lights off and locking the basement. I will win against assholes like Flash. Always. He may have the red ladle, but I have the key.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! I've been really busy with school ending and had a school trip to clear my head from writing for a little bit. I'm for sure continuing and finishing this work, so don't worry! I was planning on maybe making an account to answer questions for this fic and get in tpuch with fans. Either an Instagram or Tumblr. What should I do? Anyways, I hope you enjoyed! Please leave comments!


	13. 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony and Peter head to IKEA for their third date where Tony learns more about Peter's troubled past.

You can’t stop smiling at me every five seconds and you gloat in the fact that you paid for my ferry ticket. You look cute in black jeans and a blue shirt with some quirky science joke I wouldn’t understand and Adidas. You hold my hand as we find a spot to look out at the water on the ferry. You keep telling me that we’ll have fun and that you’re happy I’m your companion for your latest IKEA adventure. You better make this worth my while because now I can’t get the image of you sucking Flash’s dick out of my head. Every time I see you smile I think about that prick in my basement and get sick knowing you probably would’ve blown that reddit guy if he was willing to assemble.

But Flash is wrong, Peter. You’re not a whore, you’re just confused and scared. You jump on men because who else can you turn to? Your aunt is constantly working, your best friend is a control freak, your other friends are assholes, and you don’t have any other family. You think the only way to get attention is to be sexy and being sexy means fucking and only fucking means having terrible relationships. I don’t want us to be like that. But you’re not taking us seriously enough and it’s evident by your text to Ned and Harry on your way over here.

_ Score! Tony is a go. Slave for the day. _

Harry:  _ LOL now you’re gonna have to blow him or at least give him a hand job. Manual labor shouldn’t be free. _

You:  _ No he’s not assembling, just going with. Call it a hang out. _

Ned:  _ Or a date? _

You:  _ He’s a maybe.  _

Harry:  _ Maybe’s wouldn’t drop everything to help you buy a bed. LOL I would’ve blown him a long time ago if I were you. Would’ve made that his ‘thanks for saving my life from a train’ present.  _

You:  _ Eww. No one’s blowing anybody, I promise.  _

Ned:  _ Does he look like the handy type? Do you think he can install my AC unit? _

You:  _ Are you both seriously offering to blow Tony?  _

Harry:  _ … LOL _ _   
_ Ned:  _ Like you said … maybe.  _

You: _ Hands off my goods, ladies. _

Ned:  _ Are you saying he’s yours? _

You:  _ … Maybe. _

The water is making it colder than it is and I want to do the boyfriend thing and wrap my arm around you but I don’t know you’re ready for that yet. I know you have nothing against public displays of affection given your previous encounters with Flash right on busy Bank Street. I risk it and pull you close and you lean in and that’s score one for you, score one for me. We’re even now. You got me to your bitch today and I get to hold you like a lover. Seems fair to me.

“You sounded pretty excited to go to IKEA,” I say after a while.

“Yeah, I love it there,” you sigh and it’s cute and it’s almost like you’re telling me about a forlorn love, “All those staged rooms where everything is picture perfect. You walk from one room to the next and it feels like you’re in a different dimension. It’s kinda magical. Do I sound crazy?”

“Nope,” I say and you don’t, “I feel the exact same way about the bookshop. I feel different in there, like nothing else really matters. Just me and books. It gets even better when I go downstairs to the cage.”

“The  _ cage? _ ” You ask.

“It’s for the rare books. Gotta keep them safe.”

“Sorry, just guess that when I hear  _ cage  _ I think animal,” you say and this would be a bad time to tell you I have an animal of my own in that cage right now. Flash should be awake now and he’ll be pissed when I get home today.

“Think of it like a casino. They keep the money in a cage.”

“What is it about stores and shopping?” You ask.

“What?”

You look up and you feel so good to hold in my arms. You say, “You love selling stuff and I love buying stuff. I don’t care if I sound like a girl but when I buy new stuff I feel new, too. I could be in the worst mood possible and then go into IKEA and get …” You pause for a moment and is this it? Red ladle red ladle red ladle. “And get a desk organizer or something and I feel better.”

Fuck. “There’s nothing wrong with making yourself happier buying stuff. Just don’t go crazy like those housewives who spend thousands on their husbands credit cards and get like fifty extravagant robes from Europe.”

You laugh and lean into me more and I try my best to not look creepy as I get a whiff of your scent. It smells like summer and something fruity, probably dry shampoo. I feel good knowing you care about me enough to look good for me. Are those tight black jeans for me, too? I want to look down but I don’t want to end our embrace. You place your head on my shoulder and all is right in the world. This is how we were meant to be, attached and together sitting on a ferry alone by the sea.

But I need more from you, Peter. I want you to share your red ladle with me. Maybe if I showed you something I cherish, you’ll share something with me. I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out the small AC remote. I hold out the remote and you watch as I show it off.

“What’s that?” You ask.

“The most important thing I have,” I say and I’m being totally honest, “It controls the air in the cage. I can adjust the humidity, the temperature, and the fan with it. If I were to jack up the heat or the humidity, every book in there would get wet and lost forever. Signed first editions from the early nineteen hundreds, rare editions of out of print books, classics. Jane Austen’s dead and she’s not coming back to sign her books anytime soon.”

“Wow,” you say and smile at me. Red ladle? “I just got the chills. You would be a good writer, Tony.”

“Probably wouldn’t be as good as you. You’re smart. Smarter than I was at your age, at least. And Midtown High’s not your average school. Intelligent kids go there for science and stuff, right?”

You nod and look away. MJ was a bitch for exposing your age like that. But it’s better that I know it now than have to wait until you were confident enough to tell me. The cab ride home from MJ’s was where you told me, in between your kisses and pleas.

“Nah, I’m not  _ that  _ smart. There’s some real geniuses that go there,” you deflect.

I scoff. “I’m serious, you’re crazy smart. I bet your folks are proud.”

“I don’t have any,” you say quietly, “I live with my aunt.”

You don’t know that I already know about your dead family so I let you get teary eyed. I glance around at the fellow IKEA ferry riders talking about Swedish meatballs and pieces of furniture with unpronounceable names. None of these people are like us. We’re special, Peter. We’re falling in love.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“It’s okay, you didn’t know. They died when I was little.”

“I’m sorry,” I say again because I am and you don’t get to laugh your way out of this one.

“I don’t know,” you sigh out and look back at the water. Your eyes are glassy but I know you won’t cry in front of me, not yet. “Death is just so final. People die and then they’re gone. Forever. It’s always bothered me. There’s no getting used to it.”

“Of course there’s no getting used to it. And you shouldn’t have to feel like there is.”

You chuckle a sad, weary laugh and look back at me. “With all the death around me, you’d think I would get used to it. Lived with my aunt and uncle after they died. They were the people who actually raised me. Then my uncle died.”

“Jesus, Peter,” I say, “When did he pass?”

“A while ago. It’s fine, really,” you say and do you really think I’m falling for that?

“Peter.”

You look right at me and I can see the face of that same boy I saved on the train tracks. The scared boy who needed to be saved, to be held, to be  _ loved.  _ I pull you in close and you wrap your arms around me tight. We hold each other like this a while and I notice a guy not too far away nod in appreciation. He can see that I’m the man you’re looking for, the person you need in your life. You pull away first and by the time I’ve retreated, the guy is gone.

You’ve already told me so much, but I want more: “So, what was your uncle like?”

You shrug and smile a bit. “He was a great cook, for starters.”

“I like to cook,” I lie but I’ll learn to cook for you. This is it. Red ladle red ladle red ladle.

“Good to know,” you say and I wait a moment for the red ladle but you don’t mention it. “My shrink would say I’m not respecting boundaries.”

“Your shrink?” I ask. I’m brought back to the whiteboard of responsibilities hanging in your room and your therapist appointments on Wednesday’s.

“Yeah, Dr. Stephen.”

“Glad you have someone to dump all of your emotional baggage on,” I joke.

“Jesus, why am I telling you this? Why did I just tell you my life story?”

“That sounds like a question for Dr. Stephen.”

You smile at my jokes and I thank myself for being blessed with an air of charming comedic appeal. You look away and your cheeks get red and it’s cute that you’re embarrassed. Not many guys are so easy to read. Steve was hell in a handbasket with a freaky friend who guarded his emotions for him. You’re still young and open so everything’s easy with you. I lean into you and you don’t move away; yes!

“Seriously, Peter. I think shrinks are good for people. Especially for the people that actually need it.”

“I know. It’s just,” you breathe out, “Most guys don’t wanna hear about sad crap. All the guys I know would’ve freaked out if they heard me say that.”

“You know too many guys, then,” I say and you smile wider.

The ocean looks good with us on it. You lean in even closer and the captain blows the horn, signaling our proximity to the island. You nod and I can feel you agreeing with not only my statement, but  _ us.  _ People crowd us as they get ready to depart. I pull you in all the way and close the gap between us.

-

When I pictured our day date to IKEA my mind went to that scene in ‘500 Days of Summer’ where Zooey Deschanel and Joseph Gordon-Levitt pretend to be a married couple whose house is the entire store. Everything Zooey tries to turn on doesn’t work - the joke being that nothing can work since it’s all props - and Joseph runs into the next kitchen and proclaims: “That’s why I bought a house with two kitchens.” In short, ‘500 Days of Summer’ makes IKEA seem like the most romantic place on Earth and I’m a little embarrassed to admit that I hoped our date would go exactly like that. 

Instead, we’re stuck in a gigantic warehouse that smells like plastic and baby shit and meatballs and hair spray. I lug a sizeable cart behind you as you weave through displays that don’t mean anything to you. You don’t need an AC unit, you don’t need a new chair and no, your aunt doesn’t need a coffee table with a glass impression of the beach. I let you browse and pick up items you don’t have the money to buy or the use for. I love you, Peter, I really do. But I really hate IKEA.

I can hardly hear you because there’s a family behind us and they have four screaming kids under the age of eleven. There’s a toddler who won’t stop touching the side of my cart and you’re too busy touching different types of suede pillows to notice. The lazy mother finally reaches over to grab the bastard to pull it back. No apology to me, of course. You walk over with two different pillows and force a yellow throw pillow into my hand.

“Feel this.”

I do but it’s hard to hear how much you want to buy the pillow over one of the kids screaming and the pissed off father screaming back. You’re a champ at ignoring this shit but I’m not and I’m almost tempted to say something when one of the gremlins bumps into your back. You put them both back and smile at me and maybe IKEA isn’t so bad after all.

I follow your lead as you take me far away from the family from hell. You point out another bedroom display and walk over to examine the bed. You’re staring at the description next to it on a stand. I watch you bend down to read the full thin, staring at your ass. You’re wearing red briefs that are just slightly peaking above your jeans waistband. I move close to you and think about all the things I could do to you on this bed right now. I wouldn’t care if that family came back to watch. I wouldn’t care who told us to stop. I wouldn’t stop until you told me to and I would hope that that would be never. You stand back up to tell me all about how nice the bed looks and you smell nothing like this terrible IKEA and instantly I’m hard.

“This is perfect. Nice price, the size I need, and it’s the same color as my desk!” You exclaim and no, it’s not the same color as your desk. Your desk is darker, I would know.

“It’s perfect,” I agree because I’m not talking about the bed, Peter.

“Yeah,” you say.

“Hey, Peter?” I ask.

You turn to look at me and you look so sweet.

“I like you,” I say.  _ I love you. _

You smile and I place my hand on your shoulder. You let me keep it there for a moment and all is right in the world. The screeching noises of nearby toddlers fade away and all I can focus on is you. We kiss again and you take my hand in yours and squeeze it tight. We pull away and you take out the little sheet in your pocket and scribble down the bed number.

“Think this will work?” You ask.

I know you’re not talking about the bed. This is will work, Peter. You just have to be patient.

“Of course.”

I don’t know who takes whose hand but we hold hands as we walk back downstairs past the unhappy families that we won’t be like. You laugh when I tell you how I pictured this date like the one in ‘500 Days of Summer’ on the escalator.

“I love that movie! Who doesn’t love the IKEA scene? I don’t blame you, Tony,” you say.

We’re at on the first floor again and you excuse yourself to the bathroom. You might be pissing or you might not be. I’d like to hope you saved any sexual tension you feel for later when I fuck you so hard into your new bed that you can’t walk straight. While you’re in the bathroom you respond to that guy on Reddit with:

_ Sorry for the short notice but I’m cancelling the IKEA trip. My boyfriend got the day off so he’s helping me out. Thank you though! _

My fucking mind races and my heart is pounding and I want to scream in this IKEA because you called me your  _ boyfriend.  _ Before I can hyperventilate, you come out of the bathroom looking refreshed. Your hair’s been combed and your breath smells like something minty and your jeans are pulled down just a bit lower than before. You smile at me and pull me in for another kiss and kiss me so hard that I almost convince myself that you  _ rubbed one out  _ in there.

“So,” you say like you’re trying to seduce me, “Can I buy you some meatballs?”

I laugh. “No, but I can buy you some meatballs.”

We kiss again and you drag me to the cafeteria where dozens of families are lining up to grab half-assed IKEA food. We stand in line and I let you go in front of me and tell the server, “Oh, he’s with me.” Because I’m your  _ boyfriend. _ You smirk like the smug, excited teenager you are and I want to fuck on this metal tray. You prattle one about how the meatballs are worth the wait and the same fucking family from earlier is on front of us. How did they get here before us? The toddler isn’t crying but keeps running in circles, excited by the thought of food. The more the parents argue, the more I start to think about us. You didn’t tell your friend that I was your boyfriend, you told a random guy on Reddit. Now the couple is arguing about cheese or no cheese on their broccoli and I’m freaking out because what if you didn’t mean it? What if you don’t want me to fuck you on your new bed and what if you don’t want to start a family with me? The ignorant fucks in front of us won’t stop arguing and I’m getting pissed so I reach across you and take the other meatball ladle.  _ Ladle.  _ The father looks at me like I’ve disgusted him and you apologize on my behalf. He grunts and the wife’s trying to settle her fucking kids down finally and give me a small, sympathetic smile like I’m the bad guy. You still haven’t told me about the red ladle. Shit.

“Tony, is something wrong?”

“They were being rude,” I say.

“It’s just crowded and everyone’s hungry,” you appease and you think I’m being an asshole and I know I am.

“Yeah, you’re right. I’m sorry.”

You smile and let out a surprised laugh. You shake your head and I can smell you again and you smell so much better than the food in front of us.

“He says he’s sorry when he’s wrong  _ and  _ he lets me look at furniture I don’t need for two hours without complaining? Tony Stark, are you real?”

I beam. I  _ am  _ real, Peter. I’m Tony fucking Stark, a nice guy who admits when he’s wrong and lets people waste his time without complaint. I’m so real and nice and good for you. I let you pick out the meatballs and I pay (because I’m your  _ boyfriend! _ ) and we sit down at a table.

“Ya know, Tony, I’m totally gonna help you put the bed together,” you joke.

“Sure thing, mister,” I say and nudge you from underneath the table.

You smile and split a meatball down the middle and pop a half into your mouth. You let out a cute  _ mmmm  _ sound and pick up another half with your fork. You hold out the meatball for me to eat and I take it from your fork and reply with my own string of  _ mmm’s.  _ We laugh and you keep eating your half of IKEA meatball goodness when the toddler from the asshole family slams a plastic spatula on our table. The mother is quick to pick her up and usher her back to their table but now I’m reminded of the red ladle and about the fact that you haven’t told me about ti yet and now these meatballs taste like shit. You told Flash about the red ladle, why not me?

“Everything okay, Tony?” You ask and I love that you keep using my name like we’re old-timey lovers but I need to know about this red ladle.

“Yeah,” I lie, “I just remembered there’s some stuff I need to order for the bookstore.”

“That works perfectly. You can take care of the stuff with the shop and I’ll get showered and dressed. I’ll be done by the time you get to my place. Then we can set up that bed.”

Everything you said is perfect and works out like a movie but I need to hear this red ladle story. I can’t let this go, Peter. I need to take charge.

“Actually, there’s something I need while I’m here.”

“Really?” You say, half a question and more a complaint. “What do you need?”

I can’t say ladle. “A spatula.”

“Yeah, sure,” you say and begin to stand up from our meatball massacre. “Let’s find Tony his spatula.”

You smile at me as you dump the contents of our tray into the trash and follow me as I scavenge for the ‘Cooking Utensils’ sign. You sigh from behind me.

“I’m beat.”

You’re tired and want to stop walking but I need this red ladle. “Just gotta grab a spatula then we’re out of here.”

After another minute of looking, I find the kitchen section and low and behold, the red spatulas are right next to the red ladles. I point to them but you don’t notice the ladles. I walk over and  grab the red spatula and palm it.

“Think it would be lame to get all red utensils?” I joke.

You look at the spatulas and then at the red ladles. “Huh, this is really weird.”

You grab a red ladle. Red ladle red ladle red lade red ladle.

“What?”

You pet the red ladle and tell me about when you were a little boy. Uncle Ben made the best pancakes and would make tons for you and May every Sunday. He used a special red ladle for the Sunday pancakes, just on Sundays. He was adamant about using the other ladles on every other day. When you asked why, he told you that the red ladle had magic powers that made the greatest pancakes but it’s power was only allowed to be used once a week. You believed him because you were little and he was your awesome uncle. You told me you get so excited that you couldn’t sleep Saturday nights because you knew magical pancakes awaited you the following morning. Then your house was robbed and men in masks held your uncle at gunpoint. You were only ten years old, so you hid in the closet and didn’t come out until you heard three gunshots go off in the next room. May tried keeping his Sunday tradition alive but her pancakes were always too watery or too thick or burnt. You learned that the red ladle isn’t magic at all and the man who treated you like a son was gone and bad pancakes still smell like good pancakes and that’s why there will be no more pancakes ever again. Your red ladle story isn’t perverted, it’s downright tragic and fuck Flash.

“That ladle’s still there to this day, in the utensil drawer. As if he’s coming,” you say, “Life is mean.”

I put my hands on your shoulders and I want to cry for you but I can’t. I look at and look back, your eyes glossing over and I don’t want you to cry so I hold you tight. I take the red ladle from your hands.

“I’m getting you this,” I say.

“Tony, you don’t have to -”

I interrupt. “No ifs, ands, or buts. I’m serious.”

The world stops and you look at me and smile. The Flash’s of the world don’t know what boys like you need. You don’t want his money. You don’t want his dick. You don’t want to be spanked. You want love. You want someone to make you pancakes as good as your uncle did and I won’t stop making pancakes for you until you’re sick of them. Now I have the red ladle and I will make you the pancakes you want so badly, the pancakes that you haven’t had since he died. And I will learn to make them as good, or even better.

You nod and take the ladle from my hand and place it back. You reach for a ladle from the container behind it and hold it out to me. A silver ladle.

“A fresh start,” you say and God, you’re right, Peter.

I’m your boyfriend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I freaking loved writing this chapter, I've been so excited to get to this part! I really hope you guys enjoyed this chapter as we go deeper into their relationship and drag more out of Peter. I'm still considering making a Tumblr for this fic to answer questions and such. Please let me know what you think and comment below!


	14. 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony returns to Peter's house to assemble his bed but their meeting is suddenly interrupted by an uninvited guest.

I’m almost skipping down my street from delight. I smile at every person I walk past and they’re all native New Yorkers, stone-faced and annoyed that I’m happier than them. And I am happier than them, Peter. Today with you was magical and it feels like I really am Mark Ruffalo because you’re finally, _really_ falling for me. You didn’t want me to come over to assemble your IKEA bed before but now I’m on my way to the store to check on Flash and you’re getting a shower. I get home to see Flash is still out cold but I leave him a bottle of leftover Home Soda and a cheap 7-11 salad in the container in case he gets up.

As I call a cab to Bank Street, I think I hear birds actually chirping and holy shit I must be a Disney prince on my way to save the princess. You’re probably already shaving for me and brushing bits of IKEA meatball out of your gums. The cab driver doesn’t feel my enthusiasm as I wave a hello and tell him to head to Bank Street. Because I’m in a good mood and feel like the luckiest guy on the planet, I do the annoying small talk thing and he half grunts at everything I say.

“So, where are you headed again?” He asks.

“Bank Street. Going to my boyfriend’s house,” I say and smirk like a schoolgirl.

The cabbie rolls his eyes but I don’t care. Nothing can ruin this now, I have everything I need. I have Flash taken care of, I have your phone, I have the red ladle. I’m dropped off and pay the driver a generous tip because today is our day. I knock on your door and you open it after only a few seconds. Your hair is wet and you’re wearing only sweatpants and a white shirt. You smile at me and pull me into your home. It’s just now occurred to me that we’re most likely going to fuck and you’re a giddy mess which probably means you snuck in another humping session on your little blue pillow to get ready for me. You walk into the small living room and I’m all smiles until we pass the couch you let Flash fuck you on. I try to ignore it as you herd me into your room, but it pisses me off knowing that you’ve let your poor aunt sit on that very same couch and eat TV dinners with you.

The family couch is no place for a quicky so I’m thankful we’re standing in your room now. It’s just as small and cluttered as it was a few weeks ago, now with a few extra textbooks laying half open on your desk. The only real change is your broken bed that’s already been thrown out. Now a large empty space sits in the corner of the room with the box laying and mattress besides it, thankfully lugged up the stairs by your landlord. Your whiteboard is also heavily altered as now the main event I see is you studying for several tests.

“Looks like you’re going to be busy soon,” I say and point to the board.

You groan and sit down on the floor. “Yeah. Midterms for the college courses I’m taking. It really, really sucks.”

You look suddenly stressed out and I didn’t come over to do that, I came over to build your new bed and fuck you on it to break it in. So I sit down besides you and remind you just how smart you are again.

“I would’ve never had the balls to do all that in high school. You’re a smart kid, you’ll do great. Probably,” I joke.

“So if I fail one of them, I can blame you for instilling false hope in me,” you laugh and I laugh and your floor is dirty from not being swept but in a few minutes there will be a bed here and I will fuck you on it and it’ll be beautiful.

We let it get quiet for a moment and I take the chance to lay down on the floor. You follow and now we’re both facing the ceiling. You take a deep breath and point at the few dozen glow in the dark star stickers left.

“My uncle stuck those up there when I was like, five or six. Half of them have fallen off and they don’t really glow anymore. But I thought they were the coolest thing a kid could have in their room. Still kinda are,” you smile at the stickers and that makes me smile at the stickers.

I don’t want you to think about your uncle again so I entwine our fingers together and hold your hand. You stop smiling at the stickers and smile at me. I lean in and kiss you and you’re open and ready. I don’t stop until you pull away to laugh. We’re only inches apart on this hardwood floor but you’re turning your head away.

“Someday I’ll be the kind of guy to put up framed pictures and not polaroids on string. And not have stupid stars on the ceiling. Ha, I guess I’d be like a real grown up then.”

You’re rambling and I want you to stop and pay attention to us. You’re acting distant and I can’t tell if you’re doing it on purpose or not. I tug on your hand and you’re smiling but I can see stress wearing you down, your eyes alert but blank.

“I know you’re still a teen, but you’re more grown up than half the grown ups I know,” I say. _Like Flash._

You scoot closer to me and nod. “Thanks.”

We go quiet again so I wrap my other hand around your waist and now we’re spooning on your floor, two feet away from the bed I came here to fuck you on. A minute goes by before I open my mouth to speak.

“I like it here,” I say and I look around the room. It’s smaller than I remember or maybe I’m just preoccupied on your ass nestling the top of my stomach. I want you. “You think your new bed will fit in here?”

“Yeah, I had a queen before.”

You didn’t have a queen in here before, you had a double and it barely fit in the corner of your room but I can’t correct you. You pull away from my embrace and sigh.

“I guess we should get started,” you say as you sit up.

I follow you and stretch, it probably wasn’t the smartest decision for a twenty-six year old to lay on hardwood floor for more than fifteen seconds. “This bed isn’t gonna build itself.”

You smirk at me. “So, can I be your assistant, sir?”

“No, but you can be my apprentice.”

You laugh and I smile. I always say the right things to make you laugh. You like words and I know words and I stand up and reach down to extend my hand to help you up. You use it and once we’re both up we’re only inches apart. I hold onto your hand tight and our eyes lock and now I’m hard. We keep staring at each other as you take my hand and guide it to your hip. I wrap my other hand around the opposite hip and hold you until you lean in to kiss me. My hands make their way around your ass, my thumbs playing with the top of your sweatpants’ waistband. You’re kissing me so hard that I don’t have time to enjoy your firm ass underneath my fingertips. You won’t stop your barrage of kisses and I need air, Peter, please. You pull back and suddenly jump on top of me, wrapping your legs around my torso and kissing even harder.

Now I’m holding you like those couples you see in rom-com movies but there’s no cheesy laughter here, no pretty set of a beach house somewhere on Rhode Island, no flirty soundtrack to make love to. It’s just you and me, in the corner of your room without a bed with glow in the dark star stickers on the ceiling. You want me to take control so I do. I push you against the wall, sliding my hands below your waistband. You won’t let my lips leave yours so I kiss you back deeper.

I could walk from here to Brooklyn with you wrapped around me. I love kissing you like we’re porn stars, I love owning your ass, I love your heavy breathing, I love you. This is perfect because you want me and I want you and your bed isn’t even made yet and there’s a horrible sound downstairs. A loud bang resonates and I realize it’s the screen-door slamming shut. We stop to listen and hear footsteps coming up the stairs.

“Is your aunt home?” I ask.

You slide off of me and run a hand through your hair. “It’s not May, she’ll be out till eleven.”

The footsteps are at the top of the stairs now and I almost feel my heart curling up and dying when I hear, “Peter! It’s me, MJ!”

You leave me and go to your bedroom door and this is all wrong. This was supposed to be our time, just us, but you’re meeting her in the hallway and shutting your door. I can’t hear you but I sure can hear her.

“Baby, what’s wrong with your hair?” She asks.

You say something I can’t hear in response.

“Are you seriously fucking the assembly guy from Reddit?”

You say something again.

MJ scoffs. “Peter, baby, desert is supposed to come after dinner. What are you even thinking? Fucking him when he hasn’t even built the bed yet?”

Now you’re loud and clear. “Hey, Tony!”

I come out of the bedroom and smile at MJ who gives me back her fake one. “Why, hello MJ.”

“Sorry, Tony. But Peter originally hired someone to build his bed so I had to be a good friend to check up on him. Ya know, to make sure the guy wasn’t a _lunatic.”_

“Well, surprise!” I exclaim. You laugh but MJ doesn’t and I honestly wasn’t expecting much.

She looks at you. “Can I use the bathroom, babe?”

“Of course,” you say, “Are you having a flare?”

“In fact, I _am_ ,” she spits and kicks off her four hundred dollar running shoes.

She throws the pair into your room and marches across the hallway to the bathroom. She doesn’t turn on the light because she knows it’ll turn on the fan. She knows your house and she wants to hear us talk. She doesn’t trust me, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t trust anyone. I want to laugh but you take my hand and pull me back into your bedroom. You grab a pair of scissors from your desk and start cutting open the box.

“I’m sorry, Tony. She can get crabby when she’s having flares.”

Now I want to laugh even more because isn’t she always crabby? I think about making a joke but the look on your face is dead serious. Why do you get like this around her? What spell does she have you under? I lean down to help you rip open the box.

“What do you mean by flares?” I ask.

“She has interstitial cystitis. It’s a condition that makes her uh, pee a lot and it can be pretty painful. Sorry you had to hear that. Let’s just get the bed done,” you say.

You’re in MJ mode now, your mind focused on not talking to me and getting this bed done so I can leave as soon as possible. I don’t take it personally, Peter, I don’t. You know I don’t like her and that she doesn’t like me. It’s best that one of us leave to avoid collateral damage. But you’re kicking me out, not the burning vagina bitch who’s eavesdropping on us right now. The box is now open and we pull out parts to begin the construction and you’re avoiding me. Minutes ago we were close to fucking, now the only thing you’re handing me is an allen wrench and not your ass and MJ is still in the bathroom being a cunt and you’re not my apprentice anymore. We keep assembling the bed and you’re telling me more than I ever wanted to know about MJ’s vaginal region. I'm going to be sick.

“So basically she can’t drink regular water, only Evian water. Almost every food irritates her bladder, especially fast food. And it’s impossible to guess what foods will hurt her and when or why or how. All alcohol affects her too unless it’s something with a high pH like Goose. Pears are great for her though, they soothe the bladder. Anyway, she really suffers. I know it sounds uppity but if she has cheap drinks her bladder could literally, like, break.”

“Wasn’t she doing shots of Fireball at the party?” I ask.

You sigh. “Tony, don’t be like that.”

“Sorry, I’m just confused.”

“Well, it’s a complicated disease,” you sigh again and retreat to your desk and I did not sign up to build this bed alone. I miss my Peter, the one from ten minutes ago before MJ made her way through your house uninvited. I miss my hands down your pants, touching your ass like it was mine. You were begging for me, so needy you literally jumped on top of me. Now you can’t even look at me when you talk.

“Sometimes she’ll eat a lot of goat cheese or pears to coat her bladder and then she can drink stuff like Fireball,” you say with your back towards me and your face in your textbooks.

“Wow. That must really suck,” I say because what the fuck else am I going to say in this situation.

“It really does,” you start, “And I love Harry and Ned but they always want to go get pizza or go to cheap bars. Places she can’t go to because all they have is food and drinks she can’t have. It’s not very nice.”

You’re so cute that it hurts but you’re being so dumb and that hurts worse. Your friends want to go to places she can’t go to because they hate her. Everyone who has ever had the misery of meeting her hates her. I wouldn’t have agreed to build this god forsaken bed if I knew MJ would be here.

“Peter!” She yells from the bathroom. I can hear in her voice that she’s crying but I know it’s bullshit but you don’t. You rush out the door and into the bathroom to comfort what you believe is a pained MJ.

I have never felt more alone and isolated from two people before. I can’t hear the two of you talking and I wouldn’t care to. I finish assembling the frame while you tend to MJ. I give the last bolt one more tug with the allen wrench and slide it against the corner of your room. I was right, it’s way too big for your room. I take the mattress against the wall and slam it in place on the springboard. I could’ve slid it in place nicely but I want you to come out and admire my work and give me a gold star. But instead, I get a hastily written text from you.

_I’m really sorry, Tony. MJ is really sick and I don’t want to leave her alone. Could you do us a favor?_

What other choice do I have?

Me: _Everytime._

I hear my name being called from the bathroom so I walk across the hall to the door. I don’t open it and neither do you so I knock twice.

“At your service, lady and gentleman,” I quip because this situation is awkward enough as it is.

You open the door enough to peak only your head through and smile. “Would it be okay if you went to the store to grab a bottle of Evian, some ice, and a pear?”

“Of course. Should I take your keys?” I ask.

You start to say yes but MJ nudges you. You look back and shake your head. “Just knock on the door. I’ll come get you.”

You close the door. I don’t get a kiss goodbye.

It’s clear to me as I walk down Bank Street to the corner deli what has to be done: Flash has got to go. MJ gets a pass because she’s your best friend and you will always tolerate her bullshit. There is no separating you and MJ, but Flash is an easy target, mostly because he’s been in my basement for the last few weeks. But you’ve got this thing in you, Peter. A compulsive feeling that drives you towards the Flash’s and MJ’s of the world. I’m going to have to get used to your compassion. I grab the smallest bottle of Evian, a two dollar bag of ice, the worst pear in the basket, and a box of latex gloves I’m going to need for Flash.

I drag my sore ass back to your place and knock on the door. You open it quickly and take the plastic bag.

“I’m sorry but she’s really not up for company,” you say.

"Yeah, I get it. Are you okay?”

“Oh, I’m fine. And so is my bed.”

You lean in and peck me on the lips. We smile at each other until MJ is calling for you from the bathroom. You leave and I walk all the way back to the shop in Bed-Stuy. Out of all of the good from today, all of the _boyfriend_ joy is demolished by assholes who run this world like MJ and Flash.

The rich are difficult. You fall for their bullshit and lies. You can’t see through these people like I can, Peter. MJ is a monster, a woman so loveless and deceitful that she needs to lie to get your affection. Flash is a self-absorbed douchebag who calls you a whore behind your back.

On my way home, I remember the gloves I left in the bag. If you ask why I bought them, I’ll tell you I planned on cleaning your bathroom when MJ was finished. You’d believe me because what other use would I have for latex gloves? I walk into my own local corner store that isn’t as nice as yours. I buy more latex gloves and a bottle of Planter’s peanut oil and then I cross the street to order a soy latte from Starbucks. When I get home I pour a generous amount of the oil into the latte. Flash lies about everything, like all rich people do. But who knows? Maybe he isn’t lying about that peanut and gluten allergy. Maybe I’ll get lucky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the loooonnnnggg wait for this chapter, I've been busy with school but classes are finally over and I have lots of time to write. And just in time, because it looks like things are finally heating up! Don't forget to leave kudos and comments!


	15. 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony finally takes care of Flash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: HEAVY AMOUNT OF GORE. PLEASE DON'T READ THIS CHAPTER IF THAT TRIGGERS YOU. READ END NOTES TO OPT OUT.

Flash is finally awake when I step into the basement to deliver his treat. The bastard stands up in his cage, dried blood still caked on his nose from the punches I gave him. He’s already eaten the 7-11 salad I bought him and tossed the trash in the container. I set down the plastic bag on my work space and drop your phone on the bench. I walk over with the latte in hand and is this fucker seriously going to eye me down while I end his life? Flash runs a hand through his hair and takes a step back.

“Look, Tony. I don’t wanna upset you, dude. I’m sorry, I was just, just, just,” he stumbles over his own words like the pathetic, sorry shit he is, “Fuck! I’m sorry, man. I was tweaked, okay? I was high as a kite, I didn’t mean to piss you off.”

“Of course you didn’t, Flash,” I open the container and place the latte inside, “Maple latte with almond milk, one pump of espresso, and no sugar, right?”

I close the container door and watch as Flash ravages half the latte in two gulps. He stands there, enjoying his coffee while avoiding my gaze. What a miserable life he’s lived.

“You know, Flash, I’ve been thinking about what you said. About Peter being a whore.  _ Your  _ whore,” I say.

Flash dramatically exhales like he’s about to give a speech. “I was just being honest, man! That’s all,” he assures.

“What you are is wrong.”

“Tony, listen. I didn’t mean -”

I interrupt him with seething anger. “If anything,  _ you  _ create the problem. You treated him like shit. You used a seventeen year old as a cock-sock. Made a kid be your fucking sex toy for God knows how many months. You use him and then tell everyone that  _ he’s  _ the whore. What kind of monster are you, Flash?”

Flash shakes his head and I can see tears already beginning to stream down. He runs his free hand across his thick, brown hair that I will shave off and shove down his throat if he doesn’t fucking stop crying.

“Man, I’m not, I’m not. Please, Tony,” he whines.

I kick the cage and he cowers. Pathetic. “I can tell you what kind of monster you are. You’re an abuser. Both with drugs and with people. You threw him aside, you shaped him into a mold of something he isn’t. You cast him into a role that isn’t him, and you trap him in it.”

“Fuck you! God damnit, Tony. I’m  _ done  _ with him, okay? I - I don’t give a shit about him! Peter isn’t everything!” He’s screaming at me now and his spit is caught on the glass wall of the cage.

“He is to me.”

Flash throws his head back to laugh and takes another sip of his latte. His confidence is so puzzling, Peter. He can go from begging for mercy to rage in the blink of an eye. He shakes his head and chuckles to himself before screaming at me again.

“That’s because you’re a fucking  _ lunatic _ , dude!”

Lunatic. Why do I feel like I’ve heard that before?

“Sure, call me crazy. And you said, I’m not a killer … But this is about him,” I look down at the nearly empty latte.

“Tony, seriously I -”

Flash cuts himself off and I can see his adam’s apple failing to push down his now abundant saliva. His hand flies to his throat and his eyes land on mine.

“In all honesty, Flash, I’m scared of you. I’m scared of what you might do to him. I’m scared of you taking him away from me, and ruining him even more."

Flash tries to take a breath of air but the oxygen can’t make it pass his already closed throat. He drops the latte cup and the little that remains spills on the cement floor. Both hands clutch his tightening throat as he stares at me, probably hoping I’ll save his life.

“Maple latte with almond milk, one pump of espresso, no sugar and two teaspoons of peanut oil. Isn’t that right?”

Flash collapses to the ground, his smothering following soon after as his asphyxia ultimately kills him. He’s lied about so many things. Who knew? The peanut allergy was real.

-

I’ve only had the pleasure to rip out human teeth once before today. It was Bucky’s who had died quite similarly on this very cement floor. However, Bucky didn’t have any known allergies and I had no patience. The night he woke up in my cage was the last he ever spent in it. That was all under very different circumstances, though. Bucky had to go because he didn’t want me and Steve together and he was going to make sure that there would never be a way for us to.

A month after I met Steve, Bucky started getting in the way. He would call Steve on days we had dates planned to convince him not to go. He would tell Steve that I was a creep from a club and that I wasn’t worth his time. This was all trusting, loyal best friend behavior and I didn’t see the harm in it at first. Sure, it was hard getting to Steve without Bucky constantly begging him not to, but I thought for sure I could turn him around. I’m a schmoozer, not a creep. I was almost willing to bet money on it that Bucky would be on my side after a while.

But he never even gave me a fucking chance, Peter.

I couldn’t let a washed up soldier who was dishonorably discharged treat me like  _ I  _ was the fuckup. So I stalked him for three days and nights, learned his schedule mostly consisted of being up Steve’s ass and slipping out at night to drink at some cheap bar in the East Village. He had a few army buddies that were also regulars there. No one questioned his discharge except the bartender, who told me on my second night that Bucky was rumored to have fled combat in Iraq.

After Bucky stumbled his way home a few hours later, I decided to search his full militia name and low and behold: First Lieutenant James Buchanan Barnes fled the scene of an ISIS ambush on the Iraq-Syria border. A suicide bomber infiltrated the American station and blew themselves inside the living quarters. Bucky saw the suspect and ran into the desert to escape the blast without warning his fellow soldiers or even trying to kill the bomber. Three troops died as a result and four months later, Bucky was charged with desertion in the battlefield and sent home without his uniform.

A coward through and through.

On the third and final night of watching him drink his guilt away, I beat him with a tire iron in the alley in between the bar and a record store. I dragged his unconscious body into Harold’s 1979 Buick Riviera and took him to this very same cage. Bucky was nowhere near as easy to kill as Flash. His death required strength I should’ve expected from a war vet. But like every coward, he begged. He pleaded for his life, begged me to spare him. He swore he wouldn’t tell Steve, but of course I knew that was a lie. He’d already tried to separate us and I wasn’t going to let it happen again.

During our second date, Bucky broke into my apartment. I wouldn’t have noticed if I hadn’t stolen Steve’s movie ticket from that night to add to his box. Yes, Peter. You’re not the first boy I’ve made a box for. But hopefully I can get to show you yours one day. I saw the box’s lid ajar and my sheets pulled up, as if someone moved them aside to peer into the box I was hiding under my bed. An idiotic place to hide a box full of admittedly strange items from my not-yet boyfriend, I know. But I was twenty-one and in love. I also never pictured his ex vet best friend would break into my house to try and dig dirt on me. But he didn’t just have dirt on me, Peter. He had a fucking mountain of it against me. If he told Steve, I would be ruined.

That date ended just three hours before I would stalk Bucky that night. I knew he hadn’t told Steve yet because, like the drunken bastard he was, he was going to drink to make it easier to break his heart. It all fell together perfectly. Like clockwork. The same night Bucky found my box was the same night he died before he could tell anyone.

I beat Bucky to death with the tire iron. I knew that I had to hide the body and prevent him from being traceable so I put one of my metal wrench’s from my workstation on the stove. Once it was hot enough, I burned off his army tattoos and the birthmark on his right shoulder. But Flash doesn’t have any tattoos or birthmarks. So the only thing I have to do is rip his teeth out which, from personal experience with Bucky, is no fun.

In my hand is a hammer and it’s barrel is staring down the face of a very dead Flash. His face is blue from the lack of oxygen and his veins pop out and make little patterns around his forehead and neck. It’s disgusting, but fitting. His pained face reminds me he isn’t really here anymore and that the creepy dead thing laying at my feet won’t hurt me. I swing my hammer once and only a few fall out in the front. I keep swinging it into his face again and again and again and again until I don’t see anymore white in his mouth and his face is a mutilated mound of flesh and bone. He doesn’t look like anything anymore, not even a real person.

I go to wipe some of the blood spatter off my face and use my glove as a towel. Then it dawns on me; Where am I going to put his body?

Shit.

Shit.

_Shit._

Bucky was so easy. He had no family outside of Steve and Nona. No one would miss him, no one would look for him for long. I burned his body in the woods upstate where I’m sure his remains are still there today, hidden and forgotten. But Flash is different. He has a family and lots of people who give a shit, surprisingly. There will be search parties after a few months of them not believing his drug binge went on for that long. My narrative might work now but where will I hide him so it works  _ forever ? _

As I look at what used to be Flash’s face, I remember his drugged state of mind. I remember the absolute fit he went into a few days ago after he took all of his drugs. Wait. Holden Caulfield. The locker. I run out of the cage to check my wallet on the bench, praying I still have it. Right there, in between my Visa and a receipt, is the card. I pull out the plastic card and smile. 

The key card to his locker he gave me. No one knows he has it. They think Holden Caulfield is the rightful owner. I start laughing to myself. Flash Thompson, an arrogant shit who is probably cursing me from Hell right now, is saving my ass.

-

Flash lived a decently long life. Most people would say dying in your twenties would be tragic, but for Flash it’s almost cathartic. Who can say they died just when they hit their stride? And let’s face it, Flash was never going to live that long of a life anyway. Drugs or alcohol or partying or AIDS would’ve gotten him not long after I did. So his life ending at twenty-two is fulfilling.

I believe Flash wouldn’t have wanted to be buried underground, so he won’t be. It took two days to learn how to cremate a body and in those two days I’ve received zero texts, zero calls, and zero emails from you. But in those two days you’ve posted one FaceBook post, one Instagram picture, six tweets, and dozens of Instagram stories. All of them are about Halloween. You posted a picture of you and Ned in your costumes last night. You make a cute Peter Pan. So cute that I had to unceremoniously stop pouring the chemicals I got from Amazon on Flash’s body to jerk off. Yes, I jerked off on a beach at four in the morning while a mutilated, soon to be cremated, dead body laid before me. A low point in my life to be sure, but you looked so cute and even your caption was adorable:  _ Peter Parker, meet Peter Pan. _

After Flash was as burned and charred as he could be, I shoved him into one of the boxes I get for new book shipments. I just peeled the sticker off that shows the addresses and voila, the perfect coffin substitute. I probably didn’t do the best job at burning Flash’s body, but he was cremated enough for his bones and ashes to fit into the three foot by two foot box.

I stare across the water at the IKEA we were at only days ago. Turns out the address on the back of the card for the storage locker is right near IKEA. I can feel the dock sway under my feet even though they say you can’t. A deckhand is helping me carry the box of Flash on the ferry. He’s got to be in his forties, maybe even fifties, and he’s still lifting boxes all day.

“Thank you for your help, sir.”

“It’s no problem, son,” says the friendly deckhand as he places the box down, “How much did you pay for this hunk of shit?”

I told the guy I bought a shitty IKEA bed that came without certain parts and had to return it in a different box since it wouldn’t fit unassembled.

“A hundred dollars, if you can believe that,” I say.

“Damn rip off. I can help you carry it back to IKEA, if you’d like.”

I shake my head. “No thank you, sir. I got it from here. You take care now.”

I hand the guy a ten dollar tip and he beams and blesses me. I leave and lug Flash down the dock, on the opposite side of IKEA, to the storage units. If this were ten years ago, I would’ve been fucked. An actual human being would have to speak to me and ask for Mr. Caulfield to get on the phone and they’d need my identification. But now, everything is processed by machines and all I have to do is insert the key card and the gate opens.

The inside of Flash’s secret locker is full of Rolexes and jewelry, all things he was raised to treat with respect and the things he didn’t have the balls to break away from. Flash was destined to grow up rich and spoiled and live an unfulfilling life surrounded by shit like this. I saved him from years of toxic materialism. I spared him a lifetime of pain and boredom.

I crack open two bottles of Home Soda, one for me and one for Flash. I sit his open bottle on his box as I drink mine. This stuff can taste like liquid gold if you catch the right batch. I rummage through some of Flash’s stolen goodies and find a sailing hat from 2009 with the name Spencer Hewitt stitched on the lid. Rich kids stitch their names onto things so klepto roomies at boating school don’t steal their shit and so counselors can remember the names of the kids. I try it on and it fits. I take the hat because it’s not like Spencer Hewitt will be needing it anytime soon. It’s also a fiery Nantucket red, an homage to your home town. It’s been caged for years and is sensitive to life. It’s beautiful in spite of being damaged. Just like you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ding, dong, the witch is dead! This chapter was soooo fun to write. I've been waiting for the gore for a long time now and I finally get to let my true colors shine. I know this fic isn't explicit but I feel like this chapter is borderline explicit so I left a warning in the beginning notes. If you opted out, please read the message below to get caught up on the plot! As always, please leave comments. I'd love to hear everyone's reaction to Flash's end. (Mwahahaha)
> 
> OPT OUT: Tony kills Flash and cremates his body. His remains are put inside a container and placed in Flash's storage locker. Tony recalls how he murdered Bucky after he broke into Tony's apartment and found Steve's box.


	16. 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony and Peter reconnect after Flash's death when Peter and MJ have a fight.

Flash is dead and you’re in mourning, Peter, you just don’t know it. You watch movies and sit around your house for the extended weekend. I was waiting for you to walk to school Monday, I sat across the road in the scratchy jumpsuit I bought to blend in for an hour but you never walked to school. I pulled out my phone to check Midtown High’s holiday schedule and right on the homepage was a blue and green banner marking the end of your last fall quarter of high school. Students get the day off while teachers go in to finalize grades. You’re not worried about your grades, you spend three straight days binging shows on Netflix and tweeting about Grey’s Anatomy. 

It’s sexy watching you walk around your empty house in nothing but a pair of briefs and socks. And for all the hours you aren’t watching Netflix, you spend the remaining ones humping your little blue pillow. A lot. I’ve watched you masterbait more just this weekend then I have since I met you, and that’s saying a lot. 

Adding up the hours you’ve spent doing nothing still leaves room for you to answer my fucking texts. But you don’t. I texted you Friday night, two days after Flash was gone.

_ Hey. Any chance you’re free this weekend? Wanna go out to dinner? My treat. _

Nothing. I don’t text twice because I know you’ll just come up with a bullshit excuse why you can’t. It’s Monday night, an entire five days and four nights since Flash and you finally text me back.

_ Sorry for not answering, I was sick all weekend. Ugh, and now I have midterms. Sorry, this week is super busy. Maybe this Friday? _

You weren’t sick all weekend, midterms were last week, and you have nothing in your phone calendar indicating you’re doing anything all week outside of sitting on your ass. But I don’t say any of this. I send back a simple, sympathetic text.

_ It’s fine! Friday sounds good. Good luck on your midterms. You’ll do great. :) _

You don’t reply back and I didn’t expect you to. I watch as you read my encouraging text, sitting on your couch watching something while your aunt cooks dinner, and toss your phone across the couch, like you couldn’t be bothered to reply. I finally give up and walk back to Greenwich. I know I’m not the problem. 

You’ve been busy this weekend pretending you’re sick to me, while MJ pretends she’s sick to you. You texted her Friday night asking to celebrate the end of the quarter, and she told you she was sick. You text her Sunday to grab lunch and you get the same dishonest text you sent me.

_ I’m super sick, baby. You know if I wasn’t we’d hang out for sure. Proud of you for doing so well on your midterms! Text me when the college course scores come in. I love ya, Petey. Xx _

I tracked MJ down after that text. I just waited outside her Salinger penthouse for a few hours to watch her go to some vegan restaurant in Hell’s Kitchen. I watched from across the street as she ordered herself a cobb salad and swiped on her phone for an hour. MJ’s not sick. You’re not sick. But _ I’m _ sick of playing these games. I ask you to grab coffee with me, see a movie, hang out, go to a bar, go on a walk, everything. But you give me the same excuse all week:

_ I’m still sick. :( _

I eventually fall asleep. Six days and five nights since Flash has been taken out of the picture and I still haven’t seen you. I think I dream, but I can’t remember.

-

When I wake up, the world is finally at rest. I wake up to a few dozen texts on your phone. You and MJ have finally gotten into a fight. It started when you blew her off to see a matinee this Wednesday because you have an appointment with Dr. Stephen. She went off and told you she didn’t think your shrink was worth shit. You, for once, actually defended yourself and Dr. Stephen. You told her she didn’t know shit about the kind of man he is, and that just because she’s met one bad shrink doesn’t mean all are like that. I try not to get too excited reading the messages you sent each other at rapid fire speed last night.

You:  _ Are you kidding? You blow me off all week and when you finally wanna hang out and I can’t go, you get upset at me?? And now you’re telling me my therapist is a liar? My aunt pays him money to actually help me, MJ. And ever since I started talking to him, I’ve been feeling better. You don’t know him. You don’t sit in his office for two hours a week. You’ve never even met him.  _

MJ:  _ Peter, I was actually sick. I feel like shit and I’m sorry for getting upset. But that fraud you call a therapist isn’t helping you. He’s only making you worse! You’ve been so drained lately, babe. And every time you get back from therapy I can’t help but notice how tired and empty you always look. I don’t know what he’s telling you, but he’s wrong. I don’t want to see you suffer anymore. I’m tired of arguing. Please just say sorry back and we can go back to being besties and act like this never happened. _

You:  _ You want ME to apologize for not agreeing with what YOU think about MY therapist?? No. Why can’t I have one thing in my life that doesn’t involve you? _

If there’s a God, I’d like to hug Him and thank Him for making this possible. You’re pissed at MJ because MJ is a controlling maniac and I’m ecstatic because you didn’t just get into a fight last night. You reached out to me. You texted me an hour after you sent that last text. I read every word in pure bliss.

_ Alright, this is way too many words and it’s wayyy too late to even rant this much, but I’m gonna rant to you. Do you ever just feel like telling everyone in your life to fuck off??? I’m gonna sound like the usual bitchy teen who talks shit about his friends … But my friends are total assholes! I try so fucking hard to get them together for ONE night and it always turns out a huge mess. Harry won’t go anywhere with MJ and Ned won’t go anywhere with all four of us because he feels ‘too crowded.’ And MJ won’t go anywhere that sells cheap drinks because she thinks those bars bring in the ‘riff-raff.’ My friends hate each other and it kills me because I want us to be little kids again and actually like each other but … The point is, ugh. It’s five in the freaking morning and I need sleep or else school will suck Monday. Oh yeah, and I can’t seem to write anything which drives me nuts and I’m pretty sure I failed one of my college midterms and okay. Wow, I’m totally babbling right now. The sun is coming up and I can’t stop thinking of you. See you soon? Assuming you don’t think I’m a crazy person after reading this text? Lol. Alright, rant over. Night. :) _

And just like that, you’ve made my day and the world has been saved. I text back to you, short and sweet:

_ Dear Peter, I’m buying you as many drinks as you need tonight. Love, Tony. _

You love my text and send me a string of emojis in response. We set up a date. Tonight at eight we will be cruising to any bar of your choosing and dinner afterwards at any restaurant of your choosing. I make sure you know this night is about you, Peter. I want you to feel special for once. 

I’ve made all the right moves. My hair looks great today. Jason is already working the night shift. Flash is dead, gone, and forgotten about. MJ is being ignored. Mr. Bailey’s Buick is all mine tonight. I have the soundtrack of tonight already saved on my phone; ‘Crazy for You’ by Madonna - the song we first kissed to in MJ’s penthouse, ‘Cold Hard Heart’ by Bon Jovi - that song you wanted to tell me about on our first date at the Bistro, and lastly, ‘Engine, Engine Number 9’ by Roger Miller - that one should be self explanatory.

I add other songs I know you like and replay the playlist as I get ready for our date. I finger through my box of you, touching and staring at every artifact of you. I rent ‘13 Going on 30’ and let the movie play on mute in the background. I can’t help but touch myself surrounded by so much of you. I cum so fucking hard for you, Peter. Because tonight will be the night I ask you to be my boyfriend, for us to be exclusive. And who knows? Maybe tonight, it happens. Maybe your aunt will still be at work in Bellevue and you’ll let me take you on your new bed. I bring a condom just in case. 

I clean up and I realize how desperately I want to watch you right now. I want to see you getting pretty for me. I wonder if you’re worked up over tonight, too. Maybe you humped your little blue pillow for me. Maybe you’re saving your stamina for tonight. But I don’t go to Bank Street to watch you, Peter. I’m a good boy, I can be patient. I’ve waited this long, haven’t I?

-

It’s 7:53 and I’m already on my way to pick you up. I drive with my window down and let our playlist play. I’m wearing that cologne you love so much and that Mark Ruffalo belt buckle and a black t-shirt that almost screams ‘fuck me.’ I only turn down the music when I get a call from you. I pause the playlist on my phone and put you on speaker.

“Hey, Pete. On my way,” I say.

I can hear you breathe a deep sigh and it sounds like you’re out of breath. I wait a minute for you to catch your breath.

“God damnit, I’m so sorry, Tony.  _ Shit _ . I can’t go tonight, I’m sorry.”

What?

“What?” I ask.

You sigh. “It’s a long story, but someone broke into MJ’s house. She just called me crying her eyes out. She knows because they moved all the crap on her terrace to get in. She’s freaking out. I have to go help her.”

Oh, fuck.

“Oh, fuck,” I say in response.

“Whoever broke in moved her chaise.”

You sound like MJ when you’re this panicked. You’re using words like  _ terrace  _ and  _ chaise. _

I interrupt. “But they didn’t steal the chair?”

“No,” you say and sigh again. “But someone broke into her house. She’s terrified. I would be, too.”

“Of course. I understand,” I say and let you go on about how scary it is.

But you’re making it out to be much more dramatic than it really is. I didn’t  _ break in  _ and I didn’t mean to move her  _ chaise.  _ For a girl so secretive and private, I was suprised to find MJ dumb enough to hide her spare key in a potted plant on her  _ terrace. _

" MJ says she’s really sorry,” you say at the end of your rambling. “She feels terrible about our date but she’s terrified to think she might have a stalker again.”

I won’t even bother arguing about the word  _ again.  _ I can only imagine the horror stories she’s spun in the past to get you crawling back to her after fights.

“Peter, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it. We’ll postpone. Just be safe and help MJ. Text me tomorrow, okay?” 

You answer back with a curt ‘yes’ and we say goodnight. You hang up first. I throw my phone at the windshield and I’m surprised when it doesn’t break. I pick it up from the dash and forgive you that quickly. I turn around and drive back to Bailey’s, not bothering to turn on our playlist. I forgive you, Peter. I really do. You’re a loyal friend, a friend who doesn’t hold a grudge. I scroll through Instagram when I get home and see a post you shared. It’s a picture of a plate of cupcakes in front of you with a very expensive looking candy cane vodka bottle to the side. Your caption is:

_ #bestiesnightin _

I stare at that photo for a long time because I can’t stop thinking about how good those cupcakes would taste if I ate them off you. I think about laying you down, piles of icing as sweet as you all around your body, so ready for me to devour you. I think about licking icing off your ass and sucking it off your nipples. It’s not fair. You’re a meal and MJ gets the entire entree. All I’m asking for is one taste.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait everyone, my job has been taking a lot of my time recently but I'm going to try my best to be as consistent as possible with chapter uploads. I hope you enjoyed this chapter and expected the next to be a lot faster than the previous. Don't forget to leave kudos and comments!


	17. 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony and Peter begin to date more frequently which leads to Tony giving Peter the night of his life.

You do make up for MJ interrupting our date. But it isn’t in a dark bar with bad music playing where I lick icing off you on your new bed after. It’s in the middle of the day on a Sunday at  _ lunch.  _ We’re at some vegan restaurant on sixth street without WiFi and we’re drinking water and eating fucking cobb salad. All you can talk about is how lonely MJ is, how deep her “depression” goes. 

I don’t understand this, Peter. This is the type of date you’re supposed to go on  _ after _ sex. We keep tip-toeing on this line between fucking and dating. We take a step into fucking, get so, so,  _ so  _ close, and then MJ enters the picture and we take six giant steps back. We go back so much I think we enter this realm of friends with chemistry. But this chemistry is so, real ( _Different. Hot._ ) that it doesn’t make sense that we’re stuck here in perpetual friend zone.

“So, yeah. I mean, her parents are gone. She’s basically an orphan,” you tell me over your cobb salad.

“But, you’re an  _ actual  _ orphan, Peter,” I try to reason.

You shake your head and let a piece of red cabbage fall back onto your plate. “Well, duh. My family just died, but her’s literally  _ left _ her. It’s sick. They moved to San Francisco the second she turned eighteen a few months ago.”

I don’t blame them. I let you bitch about MJ’s parents more, the wealthy couple I saw online that night at her penthouse. I would give anything to go back to that elevator ride. To have you kiss me like that again. I’d rather be anywhere else with you than eating expensive healthy food at one in the afternoon. I want to order greasy subs with you and eat them on your new bed. I want to push the wrappers aside afterwards and fuck you senseless. I want to hold you while we sleep and wake up early the next morning and make you pancakes with your silver ladle.

After another twenty minutes, you excuse yourself to go to the bathroom. I check your phone and see you text MJ.

_ I know what you think about Tony. But, wow. He’s a really good listener! Don’t lose faith in people. _

MJ writes back a paragraph suspiciously fast:

_ That’s so sweet! Don’t be hard on him, babe. It sounds like he has potential. I was telling my yoga instructor about your Tony and he said he sounded like a character from Pride and Prejudice. Mr. Darcy, I think it was. He told me to tell you to ask your Tony if he has any englishmen in him LOL. I hope you two have fun at lunch! And don’t forget to take him somewhere nice. You are such a doll for checking up on me, and don’t worry, my faith in humanity is fully restored. Tony does seem perfect you. But I love being single. I’ll wait for my Mr. Right, doll. I’m patient. As always. Xx _

You come back from the bathroom and ask me if anyone in my family is from England. I tell you no and explain I’m part Italian and Jewish. You shrug it off and we go back to eating cobb salad and you go back to bitching about life. I’d like this date so much more if we were doing it after we sealed the deal. I can’t kiss you goodnight in the middle of the day and what if this is your way of putting me in the friend zone? Is that actually a thing or just a myth? Doesn’t Elizabeth deny Mr. Darcy’s marriage proposal?

Once our food is eaten and we pay the bill, you smile at me and my heart grows warm. I know I’ll never see that smile and not fall deeper for you everytime.

“This was fun,” you say.

“What are you doing tonight?” I ask.

“Why? Can’t wait to see me again?” You tease.

I smile. “Oh, I can wait. But the question is if I have to.”

“Sadly,” you start. “You have to wait. Tonight I’m seeing a movie with Ned and Harry.”

“How about tomorrow night?” Now I’m just begging and I should’ve kissed you.

“I should really start writing tomorrow. But I can do earlier, like after school. Late lunch?”

I agree to what feels like the one hundredth  _ lunch  _ we’ve had together. I walk back to the shop as I mentally kick myself. I should’ve fucked you on that IKEA bed the second it was made. I should’ve fucked you so good your moans would cause MJ to leave us alone. I should’ve kissed you after our lunch. The day after, we have lunch yet again and - yet again - I don’t kiss you. I spent six hours with you in the last two days with you bitching about your life over cobb salad and I don’t kiss you once. At this point, you might feel like I’m putting  _ you  _ in the friend zone.

The day after our second lunch date you ask for brunch _.  _ Fucking  _ brunch _ , Peter. What’s more sexless and screams “We’re just friends!” louder than lunch? Brunch. I pick you up that Saturday at ten. There’s people dressed in business attire and company meetings being held and old white ladies drinking mimosas and getting hammered. We’re the only couple in the joint, no surprise.

It’s been two weeks since we started having  _ lunch  _ and  _ brunch _ . We’ve since evolved into going to the fucking deli and ordering six dollar subs from a hispanic man on a corner store by your house. This is the exact opposite of what we need to be doing. We should be going on romantic dates and fucking in each other’s houses and playing hookey from work and school. We should be in the lovebird stage. Instead, I’m being dragged around Manhattan to sample every lunch and brunch special from Midtown to Queens like we’re forty-five. 

You’re still besties with MJ. Our relationship has put a wedge between you two, but by the looks of it you like the distance. MJ’s overbearing but if you spend all your time with me, then you have an excuse to not see her. She begrudgingly accepts her defeat when you raincheck on her when you tell you have a date with me.

You like to be babied, Peter. That’s why you love MJ so much. She has always babied you, coddled you, adored you, and loved you. So when you talk about your writing while we eat our subs as the hispanic man’s cat stares at us, I tell you how special you are. I tell you how talented you are, how smart you are. You’re lucky that what you want to hear is what I actually think:

“Pete, you’re so talented. If you didn’t have talent, no one would give you criticism in the first place,” I say.

You sigh. “But it feels like the second I post it, it gets trashed. There’s people saying good things about it, too. But I feel like the negative outweighs the positive, ya know?”

You started telling me about your many short stories you post to r/ShortStories and other corners of the internet. I’ve already read all these months ago from your computer but you send me the link and I promise you I’ll read them. 

“Sometimes the best writers get hated before they’re loved.”

You place your head on your hand and pout at me. You’re being playful but please, God don’t look at me like that. I instantly feel myself harden and you huff.

“There’s this girl in my creative writing class, Liz. Anything and everything I write is garbage to her. We do this thing at the end of the week where we grade each other’s most recent work. I like all the feedback, but she just hates my writing. I can’t tell if she’s doing it because she hates my writing or hates  _ me _ .”

Liz hates you. Purposely grading your work poorly every week since the beginning of the school year is a telltale sign of bitchy teenage girl behavior. For a reason unclear, Liz hates you and her trashing your work is just a petty way of expressing her disdain. But hate suits you, Peter. You suck it all in and let it rage out of you.

“She’s a ball of anger who doesn’t speak to her mother, her friends, her locked up dad, or the six guys she’s fucked on the football team because she’s a bitch cheerleader addicted to antidepressants,” you breathe. “I’m sorry. That was really rude.”

“Rude to Liz Allen, head cheerleader? Yeah, a little. Well, actually it was really rude but she sounds like a total bitch.”

“She is. Apparently she’s also desperate enough to be a cam girl. Ned said her mom found out about her stashing her anxiety medication and binging on them so she cut her off. Now she gets naked online for cash, I guess. Someone found out over Halloween break and her nudes got spread around. She came to school and told everyone she’s a  _ performance artist _ ,” you roll your eyes at the end. God, you look good when you’re bitter.

“So,” I say, extending the word. “She’s a ho?”

“Exactly,” you go on. “And she hates that I’m from Nantucket and hates that I like poetry more than fiction.”

I bite into my sub. “So fuck her, then.”

I try to help you move on from Liz Allen, Peter. I try my hardest to steer you away from her every lunch, brunch, and deli date we go on. But you’re fixated on the idea that someone could hate you. You don’t know why she hates you so much and it’s all you want to talk about.

Every.

Fucking.

Night.

These talks would be easier to have after we’ve fucked. It’d be easy to turn over and watch a random movie on Netflix while you we wait for sleep and have you half mumbling, half bitching. But we’ve evolved yet again, this time from deli dates to late night phone calls. We talk nearly every night and for the last six days, you’ve only talked about Liz Allen and her prescription drug addiction and her shitty dad and her forty thousand dollar Mercedes. We’ve been steadily dating for three weeks and the one thing you can talk about is some petty bitch in your creative writing class. 

I’m glad I’m not in high school anymore.

We hardly talk about anything else anymore. This girl’s hatred towards you has blinded you. You’ve probably been up for days thinking about how one person could dislike you so much. I don’t blame you, Peter. I don’t. High school is a shitty, terrible, insecure time for everyone. You feel like a victim and all you want to know is why. But our phone calls are always the same. You start with the mandatory greetings.

“So, how’s the shop?” You ask.

“The shop’s, the shop. Same as always.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

And then I wait for you to ask me for something else. To ask me how my day was, to ask me about my family or  _ anything _ . But I always cave and say, “How about you? How’s school?” But I can’t do this anymore. It’s time I finally get us back on the right path. I’m your boyfriend, not your phone bitch or your lunch bitch.

“Hey, Pete,” I say as we’re having our nightly call.

"Yes, Tony?”

“Let’s go out.”

You say, “Oh, I’m in my pajamas right now and May’s home. And I have class tomorrow.”

“No, no. Let me take you out next week. My treat.”

There’s a pause and I bet you forgot how much you still want me to fuck you. But you’re trying to live by MJ’s laws: no boyfriends, just besties. But if you were really following by her rules, then you would’ve made an excuse by now.

“So, when are we headed out?” You say and I can hear the tease in your voice.

“Friday night,” I say. “Just us. Something nice. I wanna treat you as special as you are.”

You say yes and I can hear the grin in your voice. I say yes back and you say it again, like if we don’t say it enough it won’t happen. This is the perfect time for me to tell you that I started reading your stories. I lie and say the first one I read was “Dust Bunnies.” It’s an erotic story you didn’t send in for class and that I’m sure you left for me to read. “Dust Bunnies” is about a boy (who am I kidding? The boy is definitely supposed to be you) who works as a housekeeper for a rich family over the summer. Of course I tell you my favorite part is when the daddy of the house tries to fuck you in the laundry room.

“Oh, you know it’s not actually me in that story.”

“But you told me you worked as a maid last summer, right?”

“Well, yeah but I didn’t throw myself at every man in the house,” you’re quick to defend yourself and this is why people like Liz Allen hate you. You covet, innocently, but only because you’re not comfortable with yourself yet. You continue, “Tony, I seriously can’t stress this enough: That story’s totally fiction. Not by any stretch of the imagination is that guy supposed to be me.”

“I know.” I don’t know.

“I’m not a slut who goes after rich, married men,” you say.

“I  _ know,  _ babe,” I drop the babe bomb on you and wait for collateral damage.

“So, sexy,” I can hear the smile in your voice again. “Where are you taking me?”

-

The night has finally arrived for me to make you feel like the prince you are. You’re ecstatic that I refused to tell you this entire week where we’re going or what we’re doing. All you needed to know is that you need to look good. And that is exactly what you did. I arrive at six in Mr. Bailey’s beat up Buick outside your Bank Street home. I knock on the door and you open it wearing skinny black jeans and a white and black flannel buttoned up. Your hair is curly, like you didn’t comb it after your shower and you look well-fucked. I bet your little blue pillow took a beating while you were getting ready. 

You look so beautiful and done up, all for me. Everything, your hair, your jeans, your cologne, your smirk, your fuck-me eyes; all for me. I’ve saved up for this night. Not just in money, but in suspense. I haven’t looked at your phone all day, so I could give us all the tension we need to make this perfect. You’re still smirking at me and it’s been a few seconds and I want to say something. I have to or else this could be awkward.

“Hey,” is all I manage.

You flirt, “Hey.”

Now you’re staring at me with those oh-so-fuckable eyes so hard that I almost pull myself in and lock the door behind us and take you on that couch. That couch you let Flash fuck you on, it would be ours now and you’d gladly accept a new memory to live there. This is it. Tonight is the night. I finally have you in my arms and you can’t hide from me anymore. I love this. I love you.

I go to grab your hand when I hear quick footsteps walking towards us. I look up and see your aunt, lingering on the stairs, still in scrubs and looking tired as hell. But she smiles at me so warmly that I almost think I’m seeing double. You really do get your beauty from your father’s side.

“Oh, hello! You must be Tony,” May chimes and I don’t know whether to hide or cry because _you_ _told your aunt about me?_ Is she okay with her nephew seeing older men? Did you tell her I was older or is she just figuring this out now? I smile back and watch as you nervously finger the hem of your flannel. She doesn’t know I’m twenty-six. You don’t plan on telling her. I do the only thing I can do and make an excuse for us.

“Oh, Peter. This must be your lovely aunt,” I say and the older woman beams. She’s gorgeous, just like you. “Uh, I’m typically a very friendly guy but we’re running a little late. It was nice to meet you, Mrs. Parker.”

I say and wave as I shut the front door. You cower behind me like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. I sigh and place my hand on your shoulder.

“She doesn’t know.”

You shake your head. “No, she doesn’t  _ know.  _ If you know what I mean.”

I lead the way as we walk to Harold’s Buick. You follow behind me and I open the passenger side door for you. Despite your embarrassment, you blush and quietly thank me as I shut your door. When I get inside, I start the car and it takes me a moment to realize the weight of your words.

“Wait,” I say as I pull away from Bank Street. “She doesn’t know that you’re gay? At all?”

You sigh. “Not a clue.”

I hum in acknowledgment as I start driving down Manhattan. Out of all the people you tell all your secrets to, share your deep thoughts with on Twitter, meet on the streets, sleep with on Reddit; you leave your only family out of the most important revelation about yourself a teen can have. 

“Why haven’t you told her?” I ask.

“I don’t want to make her worry. She’s got enough to worry about,” you say. “I know she would accept me and support me, but she’d worry about me even more. She already suffocates me. She’d combust if I told her.”

“She’s overprotective?”

I look over to see you trying to part your hair, nervously flipping it one way and matting it down another. You use the mirror on the driver side and give up after a moment, flipping it closed.

“You could say that,” you sigh.

I nod. She is taking care of a self destructive orphan with immense daddy issues, after all. It’s no surprise she’s overprotective of the only family she has left. I make a turn and I can see the hint of a smile appear on your lips and it’s enough to convince me this date isn’t ruined. Not yet.

-

We get out of the Buick a few blocks away from the park. I’ve already planned this entire night out. It’s too romantic (and expensive) for you to say no to. I open your door for you and we head out into the night. You immediately hold my hand once we’re on our way. This feels better than it did on our first date when we held hands at Union Square. All of those late night phone calls and lunches and brunches and deli dates have paid off because there’s  _ glue _ there now. 

We’re both surprised at how well we know each other. You lean into me and I hold your hand tighter. It’s as if we’ve always known each other like this. We walk for another minute in silence before you chime in.

“So, where are we headed?”

“Central Park,” I say.

“Wait, oh my God, Tony. Really?”

You already know where this is going. Yes.  _ Yes. _

“Yup. Where they keep the carriages.”

You squeal and clap like a child. I pat myself on the back, I did good. Part of me was worried you wouldn’t be happy, nothing is more cheesier than a horse drawn carriage through Central Park in the fall. But it’s been three weeks since our IKEA date and you deserve to feel like a prince, if only for an hour long carriage ride. 

We walk the rest of the block together and I greet the fifty year old jockey sitting on top of the carriage. He asks for my name and I tell him. He checks something on his schedule and just like that, I’m hoisting you up inside the carriage like it’s a rom com and you’re the clumsy starlet. We nestle besides each other as the carriage begins to move and we get a front row seat at Central Park in all it’s night lit glory. 

“This is bold,” you say, moving closer to me.

I wrap one arm around you and pull you close, thankful our carriage is roofed. I lean in closer and I can smell the want on you. Your skin is pink and flushed, your eyes are blown and wide. You want me right here. And I’m all too eager to oblige.

“No,  _ this  _ is bold,” I say and tenderly kiss your neck.

I smile into another kiss when I’m met with your wanton moans. I keep kissing you until I feel my other hand glide down your chest and rest at your crotch. I don’t move it, won’t move it, unless you tell me to. And oh, Peter, you tell me to. You buck into my hand and I can feel how hard you are, how bad you need me. 

I slip my hand in your pants and in your briefs until I feel your cock. I grip it and let my thumb finger the side of it gently. This can’t be happening to me. But it is. You want me, Peter. You’re begging me now.

“ _ Please _ .” 

It’s all I need. I stroke your dick, I let you buck and rut against my hand. I kiss away your moans and whimpers as I give you the best handjob I can inside a cramped carriage. You’re so turned on (the trot of the horse, the color of the leaves, my cologne, my hand gripping your dick so tender, the thought of not knowing what’s to come) you can barely form sentences. Neither can I. I feel you cum, your dick twitches and you pant out a long string of moans. It’s beautiful. I love this. I love you. 

I pull out the handkerchief with ‘Harold Bailey’ engraved in gold lettering at the bottom and help wipe you clean. You smile and kiss me slow as I wipe away the cum threatening to stain your briefs. I place the ruined fabric pack in my pocket and hold you for a few more minutes quietly. We snuggle into each other and watch the scene of Central Park from our enclosed carriage.

“Thank you,” you say after a while.

“No, no,” I shush you because I’m too happy to fucking talk. I just continue you to hold you close, spooning as New York City shuffles by us. You close your eyes and I watch you. That was the best moment of my life and the night is still young. We still have our date. I feel you wrap your hand in mine again and I squeeze it. This is the best two hundred bucks I’ve ever spent. Thanks, horse.

-

Flash was right on your taste. You like luxury, and my reservation for dinner at The Plaza Hotel’s dining hall probably made you drool more than my handjob. We’re tucked into the darkest, most isolated corner of the place and I’m torturing you. We kept staring at each other so you said fuck it and switched to my side. Now we’re touching each other on the same side of the velvet red booth and you’re hard again. 

You tease me and I tease back. You point out all of the empty hotel rooms we’re surrounded by right now. How easy it would be to sneak in while a maid was busy and have our fun on those big, soft beds. But I won’t be taking you to bed tonight, not just yet.

“Oh come on, Tony,” you say. “We could steal a key from a maid. I’ve never done anything like that.”

“And what is it that you’d like to do in there, young man?” I tease.

“You know what I want to do in there, Tony.”

“Oh, yeah?”

You’re whispering and giggling in my ear and if I asked, you’d get under this table in a heartbeat and suck me off. But I don’t because I want to preserve your dignity while you disregard it. You nibble on my ear and I feel my hard on get even harder. I look down to see your hand slide across my thigh, yes. You slip it under my clothes and, that’s right, there’s your hand on my dick. I try to focus on breathing as you work me. They need to come up with a new name for handjob because this

Is.

Fucking.

Magic.

I steady myself against the booth seating and open my eyes to find something unsexy to stare at so I don’t blow my load in a crowded, fancy restaurant. You keep playing with me because you want me to cum like you did in the carriage. But I don’t want to grant you the satisfaction. Not yet. I’ll hold onto my bearings until my first load with you will be inside you.

You lean into me more and I use my body to slump forward to cover our sin. You’re as hard as me and it won’t be hard to make you cum for me again. I slide my hand down your back and rest at your waistline, just above your jeans. You smile at me, coyly. You know what game I’m playing at and you want me to start. I slowly let the tips of my fingers glide down the small of your back and into your briefs. 

No one’s watching us. No one cares enough. These are people loaded with money. This restaurant is for the rich who’s visiting family. They take their sex to their thousand dollar a night rooms on the honeymoon suite floor. But we’re not the rich. I’m easily the poorest guy in the room. I make less than the waiter. But that doesn’t matter. This booth can be our honeymoon suite.

"Tony.”

“Yes?”

“I want you. Now,” you sound warm and inviting. I can’t deny your demand.

But a fucking waiter is at our table and we quickly pull apart from each other. You lean away and cross your legs. I fix my shirt and pull my hand out of your pants. What is this? Are we being busted for PDA?

“Excuse me,” he says.

I clear my throat. “Uh, yes?”

He bows slightly and gestures to us. “Are either of you a Mr. Parker?”

We share a quick glance at each other before you nod your head. “Yes, I’m Mr. Parker. Is something wrong?”

Everything is wrong.

“Ah, I’m so sorry to interrupt you, but you’ve received a rather urgent call from Miss Salinger.”

“Oh shit,” you say and this is crumbling right before my eyes. I can’t pick up the pieces even if I tried. You rummage through your pockets and I watch, helpless, as the magic melts faster than snow in April. 

The waiter leaves us and I swallow the bile rising in my throat. “That’s weird,” I say.

“I can’t find my phone.”

I don’t help looking. I don’t want you to find it. 

“How did she know we were here?” I ask.

You tense your face up because you know you fucked up. You let it out. I want to scream when you say, “I may have tweeted about it.”

No, Peter. This was supposed to be our night, alone. Just us. I did this for you. Those jeans were for me. That cologne was for me. Those moans were for me. Those touches were for me. You can’t tweet when you know you’re going to be fucked. There’s a deal you make when you slip into a booth and play handsy with a guy treating you to dinner. How is this going to work if you crave attention so badly you tweet about our date?

“Tony, please don’t be mad.”

“I’m not mad,” I lie.

“It’s just, I’ve never been here before. And I always wanted to go,” you find your phone and open it. “When you were in the bathroom earlier, I tweeted it. I was just so excited.”

“It’s fine.”

“I should call MJ,” you say.

“Okay, Mr. Parker. Go call MJ.”

You nod and slip away. I watch as you hike up your pants as you walk towards the doorman and lay and unnecessary hand on him. He smiles at you and you smile back and talk to him about what, I don’t know. Your pants are too tight and so is that flannel. You pop too many buttons off the collar and show too much of your collar bones. I need to break you, Peter. This public hungry, attention craving side of you will be hell to get rid of. And you’ll need an escort if you decide to dress like a whore like that. 

An ancient looking man stares at me from a booth adjacent to ours. He smirks at me with this shit eating grin I’d like to beat the fuck out of.

“What’re you staring at?” I spit to the man.

He doesn’t bat a fucking eye. No one does. I stand up to wipe myself off and fix my pants. I hear you call me from the lobby, “Tony! We need to go  _ now. _ ” The old man laughs at me and I shiver with anger. 

I walk away and meet you at the front of the restaurant. You look impatient and nervous. “Alright, let’s go.”

I start, “Wait, I gotta pay.”

You shake your head. “Don’t worry, I grabbed the waiter and paid. I’m sure than horse thingy must have cost a fortune.”

And just like that, you made all of my hard work into making you feel like a prince go to shit. You paid and I’m not the man and that horse drawn carriage isn’t a  _ horse thingy  _ and everyone is laughing at me. The waiter will go home and tell his wife the story of the sorry sap who was being played for a fool that he had to wait on last night. The old man will continue laughing at me until he rots and everyone else is laughing, too. The waiter, the old man, Harold, your dead uncle, and Flash. Flash is rolling in his grave and if ghosts are real, he’s probably hanging back at the booth right now. Sucking in all of my failure of tonight. And laughing. They’re all laughing.

You lead the way down the street and your hand isn’t in mine and I want to recoil in agony. You start hailing a cab and one rolls up to the curb. You open the door for me, not the other way around. You strip all of the man out of me, piece by piece. It can’t get worse but it does.

“Where are you headed?” The cabbie asks once we’re settled into the back.

“Upper West Side, seventy-first,” you say.

“Is MJ okay?” I ask, surprised I’m capable of stringing words together.

“No,” you say as you try mating down your hair. “You’ll never believe what happened.”

I don't say anything in return. I don't think I can. I'm your phone bitch, not the guy of your dreams who got you off in a two hundred dollar pony ride and was willing spend another hundred on hotel salad and wine. It's besties before boyfriends. It's a dog eats dog world. MJ is a Rottweiler and I'm a Shitsu. I'm your phone bitch. Phone. Bitch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy fuck, this is a monster of a chapter. I wanted to include all the smut in one place ;) Lol, things will be getting a bit more dicey from here on out and my favorite part is just around the corner! So excited for everyone to read what's next. Leave kudos and comments and all that jazz.


	18. 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony and Peter make it to MJ's where Tony makes a shocking discovery.

Tonight was supposed to be the beginning of us. You were supposed to beg me to fuck you, which you already were, but we would’ve done it. Not in one of the hotel rooms, but in the bed we built together. You were supposed to kiss me and curl into my chest as I stroked your hair, looking up at your glow in the dark stars. That morning, we were supposed to sneak out early and catch breakfast at one of the places we were at before. But this time, it would be magical because I’d already been inside you. 

Instead, we are on our way to MJ. The insufferable bitch who takes your time and wastes mine. We’re sitting in a cab I’ll no doubt have to pay for even though I don’t want to go on a rescue mission with you. You’re not even bothering to look at me, already clocked into MJ mode as you stare at your phone. Your fingers dance away at the screen and I watch you type something to someone. You’re sitting right next to me, yet you couldn’t be more far away.

“Hey, Pete?” I try.

You don’t even look over. “What?”

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

You finally look at me. Your face sours, your brows furrow, your jaw tightens. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you look irritated with me. Which is a comedic parade itself, _you_ irritated with _me?_ As if I’m the one who tweeted about our date, knowing my psycho best friend would see it and make up some elaborate stunt to get me to go to her house and fall into her trap, just where she wants me. 

“Oh,” you start. “You’re mad.”

You read me too well, too quickly. That, or my anger isn’t very easy to confide. I shake my head.

“No,” I lie and it isn’t my fault MJ has separation issues and you can’t stay off your phone for one fucking night. I am better than you and you know it or you wouldn’t be holding my hand and sighing and apologizing. You drone on about MJ thinking somebody broke in and stole her shit again which is ridiculous because only I broke in once and didn’t steal anything.

Your irritation seeps away as we hold hands on our way to the East Side. I listen to you talk about MJ and worry about your friend while I watch our entwined hands. We’re together. There’s _glue_ there. But there’s something pulling us apart, like a glue solvent. 

“Huh,” I grunt when you finish talking. 

“Tony, she’s really scared. She’s a kid, my age, and she’s all alone in a huge penthouse with no parents, no friends, nobody. And she’s my friend.”

“I know,” I say.

You snap, “Then don’t go _huh.”_

You don’t have the guts to yell at MJ or May. So you take it out on Harry and Ned, and occasionally me. I take it because you need to let it out. I’ll take your bullshit. I will, Peter.

“I’m sorry, Pete. I really am. I didn’t mean it like that.”

You nod. You’re kind. You’re understanding. You’re loyal.

“But think about it,” I try. “That building’s locked tight. She lives in a decent place with more than decent security. It’d be seriously hard for someone to break in.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter if it happened. She thinks it did.”

I retreat from my post and let you win. I silently sit back and wait until we get to MJ’s. When we do, I try my best to regain my ground and open the door for you and pay for the cab (as expected). You pull me into a hug and I instinctively hold you tight. 

“I’m sorry about MJ,” you say. “But this was the Best. Date. Ever.”

I smile because you somehow manage to make every word it’s own sentence and emphasize ‘best.’ I pull back enough so I can kiss you just like you want me to. You smile into the kiss and I could stay here with you in my arms forever.

“Define ever?” I joke.

You only laugh and kiss me again. It’s so good. You feel so good against my lips. Just two months ago I would’ve doubted we were ever going to get to this point. Two months ago you didn’t know I existed. I spent two months watching, waiting, praying, and killing for this. Now you’re melting into my arms and kissing me first, slow and patient. Because you have no idea how long I’ve waited for this.

We finally break away with a laugh and I hold your middle as we walk side by side to her door, very much a couple. I’m no longer the hot bookstore clerk, you’re no longer my fantasy. At least we’ve made it this far. We walk inside the lobby and towards the elevator. You press the intercom button and MJ answers in milliseconds.

“Peter? What the hell took you so long?” She rushes out.

“Sorry! We’re at the elevator now. Buzz us up.”

She groans. “ _We?_ ” 

The elevator doors open and MJ’s voice can’t be heard. You sigh. “This is gonna be a long night.”

"Do you want me to leave?” I ask, hoping the answer is yes.

You shake your head. I can tell you don’t want me there to experience her inevitable breakdown but you link your arm through mine. “No, Tony. I know MJ can be a lot to handle but … she’s sad. She’s tried to kill herself a few times. Please go easy on her.”

“I just don’t like seeing you get yelled at.”

You smile and squeeze my arm. You lean into me and I can smell you again. “You’re so sweet, Tony. You’re my protector.”

“I am,” I say and hold the hand that was on my dick forty minutes ago. I kiss it like a prince and you giggle.

“My knight in shining armor,” you coo like the teenage boy you are.

We stop our charade and end up laughing again. You press into me, gentle and wanton. I wish this elevator were going down and not up. I wish ‘Crazy for You’ by Madonna was playing and we were making out against the door with your blazer being trampled by our feet. I miss that first night at MJ’s. 

The doors open and we quickly pull away from each other. Loud Beatles music blares from a stereo and I can barely make out the chorus of ‘I Want You’ from the overpowering bass. MJ is standing right at the door, arms crossed across her chest. She looks like shit, hair frizzed and eyes sporting bags. She eyes us up and down and snarls. She’s pissed.

“You sure took your sweet time getting here,” she says as she walks away.

You sigh and pull me into her penthouse. We follow a very angry MJ into her living room that looks like another Brown party passed through it. The overbearing ending instrumental of ‘I Want You’ plays as you squeeze my hand and whisper to me.

“I’m sorry.”

I smile back at you and squeeze your hand even harder, firmer. I watch the insufferable MJ lead us to her couch, eyes stern and arms still crossed. If I lived alone in a place this huge, I’d go crazy, too.

-

MJ is pulling you into her spiral of lies. I watch and listen as she wraps you around her finger, weaving the story of how she got home from yoga and saw her chase slightly moved yet again. She tells her tale of horror as she rushed to call you, hiding herself in the living room hoping the intruder wouldn’t find her. Despite her apparent disdain for Hollywood, MJ would make a great actress.

You nod and hum and stare at your friend as she blabbers on about a story that didn’t happen. You hold my hand, squeezing it every time a particular scary part of the story is told. I squeeze it back and watch as she poisons you. You’re on the edge of your seat. Hearing her lie and watching you believe is too hard to witness but I can’t say anything.

You’re quick to pull your phone out once she’s done. “We should call the police,” you insist.

But she shakes her head and I can’t take it anymore so I stand up. “Maybe I should take a look around first? Just to make sure no one’s still here. Or maybe find any clues.”

“Yeah, that’s a good idea,” you agree.

I look back at the shapeless form of lovelessness on the couch opposite us. “Do you mind, MJ?”

“Be my guest,” she shrugs.

“Are there any suspects?” I ask and I can feel you clutch onto my hand tighter.

MJ looks away and towards the window. A classic liar’s move. “Well, there’s this incompetent delivery boy who brings my groceries every other week. I’ve caught him staring at me in weird ways before. But, I doubt he has enough brains to know how to break into my house. I mean, no offense, Tony, but this kid dropped out of high school.”

“None taken,” I say, every bit offended.

She shudders. “That came out wrong.”

“It’s alright,” I say and she’s lucky I don’t give a shit what she thinks. 

I lean over and kiss you on the mouth, slow and sweet. You smile at me when I pull away and I can almost hear your thoughts now, ‘T _hat’s my boyfriend. He’s just that good.’_ I help your friends and pretend to like them instead of complaining about it. Because that’s what good boyfriends do.

I walk away and into the massive library. I run my hands across the beautiful rows of books and pull a few out just to admire. I pull out the same copy of ‘Brave New World’ and happily stare at it’s perfectness. I place it back on the shelf and I’m about to come out when I hear you and MJ talking in the kitchen.

“How about pizza tonight, babe?” She asks.

I peer into the kitchen, leaning on the gigantic library door. I see you frown. “I thought you can’t have tomato sauce with IC?”

“Honestly, when I’m flaring and as stressed as this, it makes no difference,” she says.

You coo, “Oh, MJ.”

She sighs and buries her face in her hands. “This is So. Not. _Fair!”_

I wince. When you break your words into sentences, it’s cute. When MJ does it, it’s a chorus of insufferable whining that makes my ears bleed. I roll my eyes and turn my body in the direction of the stairs. What I really need to see is her bedroom. It’s been a week since I’ve last seen it when I first broke in. I remember thinking about how it’s probably bigger than the shop, and to my dismay, it absolutely is. 

I look around at the massive space in front of me. This is a ballroom, not a bedroom. You could run laps in a room this big. I walk until I’m in the center of the room and gawk at the architecture. Maybe this is why MJ wants to be an architect; the rich do know their homes. Grand yellow floral walls peak into a curved ceiling with a chandelier hanging from it. It’s not the first time I’m seeing it, yet I’m taken away by the beauty. 

I lock the door behind me because I want some privacy and I need to recuperate from MJ’s web of lies. I go to kick my shoes off and use the gorgeous mahogany dresser to steady myself as I peel them off. I dig my toes into the rich mink rug and smile. I won’t see this type of wealth again for a while, so I might as well enjoy myself.

I walk barefooted to the large bookcase on the across from her California four-posted canopy bed. There’s hundreds of priceless books with dozens of marathon and racing ribbons hanging from the mahogany shelves. The girl’s been running since she was a kid and she’s got the prizes to support it. I feel the mahogany wood and feel disgusted with myself that I want a life like this so bad. It wouldn’t be so hard to donate this bookshelf, she hardly uses it anyway. What I’d do to have a piece like this at my shop. 

I walk back over to the other mahogany furniture, the dresser, and try to pry it open. It takes a while, the magnetic frame getting stuck. I pull hard and a bevy of hair products and makeup fall on me, along with a small wooden box I assume is for jewelry. I lean down to put it all back and curse myself when I see the wooden box open, praying I haven’t ruined some priceless earrings. I pick up the box and its lid and see the contents. A few dozen photos, some Polaroid, some printed, are laid haphazardly in my hands. I shuffle through them. I catch my breath.

Holy.

Fucking.

Shit.

I can’t believe my luck as I flip through all thirty seven revealing pictures, all of _you._ MJ is quite the photographer. A good photographer can take a picture of a dumpster and make it look good, like art. But these pictures aren’t art, Peter. I gape as I sift through them in appeal and horror. These are fucking _porn,_ Peter. I have to sit down because this is too much to take in, to know, to fully grasp. MJ loves you. She wants you. My senses are riled and fried: an enemy lives here now as I realize these pictures are smeared, well-loved, and sticky. Some of them are still wet with fingerprints pressed into them. She doesn’t just love you, Peter; she’s fucking deranged with obsession. I look closer and see sticky layers of lady juice, female ejaculate all over each one. That’s why they all feel so slimy. She fingers herself, then touch you, then goes back to pleasuring herself. I want to scream and drop the filthy photos but 

These.

Fucking.

Pictures.

No wonder MJ is so angry, so pent. She’s been obsessed with you for _years._ Some of these pictures are taken when you were probably middle school aged. The pictures tell me the history of your body and development. I see the youngest one, you can’t be more than thirteen years old, of you lying asleep on a bed. You’re in just a pair of briefs and you’re clutching a pillow with the covers seemingly ripped off you. Light is pouring in from a window above the bed and I can see the moon reflected on a body of water. You look like an angel, so innocent and sweet, with your legs forcefully spread open. I want to vomit. But I can’t look away. I see the next one of you, a little older maybe fourteen, just in your swim trunks about to dive into water. It’s taken from behind, only focusing on your ass. I flip through all the photos until I get to what looks to be the most recent one. It’s dark out, you’re on the beach completely naked. The moon shines against your back as you sit on top of Flash. You’re fucking him. MJ has photos of her best friend having sex. MJ has a good camera because despite how far away she is, I can see you smiling down at him and your nipples pop like buttons against the black ocean.

I have to get to the bed. These photos, Peter.

These.

Fucking.

Photos.

I sit down and feel a lump under the comforter. I reach over and pull out a crumpled pile of MJ’s sweaty workout wear. I push it aside and lean back as I whip out my dick. I stroke myself to these photos, they’re better than any porn I’ve ever seen in my life. I want to fuck every single picture. The one of you naked in the shower, the one of you changing in the boy’s locker room, the one of you riding Flash. I can easily cover his face and imagine it’s me grabbing your neck like that and letting you ride me into oblivion. It’s not in me that picture, but it will be and I’ll be the one getting all your glory as you force me deeper into you, screaming and moaning out, _Tony._  

I spew my load in my hand and use the musty sports bra next to me to clean myself. I’m left with no choice but to push the soiled garment into my pants. MJ won’t miss it. I take a picture on my phone of all of the photos and put them back in their perfect wooden box like I never saw them.

I walk back downstairs after washing my hands in the master bathroom and find you both in the dining room. Everything is wrong now and nothing is as it should be because MJ isn’t just an annoyance anymore, she’s an enemy. MJ’s half drunk on wine and you let her drone on about how she’s being _stalked._ I suppress my snort and sit down next to you at the table. You smile at me and I quickly kiss you on the forehead, trying to erase the dirty pictures of you I just jerked off to. I wait until MJ’s done and chime in.

“Didn’t find anything. But, MJ, I notice you run a lot of marathons. Do you run every day?” I ask.

“Why?” She snipes. She wishes I were dead. Not because I didn’t go to college. Not because I’m not a rich bastard like her. She wants me dead because of the way you look at me. She knows you love me and it’s driving her insane.

“Well, if you run every day, it’d be really easy for some creep to figure that out and stalk you. Anybody could track your usual pattern and follow you home after,” I point out.

Your eyes widen and you furiously nod your head. “Oh my God! Oh my God, Tony. That’s it. MJ runs every morning before light at the park. Somebody probably followed you home.”

“Not _every_ day,” MJ adds but she wipes her phone out to lower The Beatles volume so she can hear you sing her praises.

"Yes you do, MJ. You’re amazing, fearless. I mean, you literally run in the _woods_ every day.”

MJ shrugs but I can see her committing your words to her memory: _amazing, fearless._

“Wow, MJ,” I interrupt. “That’s really not safe. Somebody could easily stalk you that way.”

“Well, I live outside of the box, Tony. That’s just who I am,” says MJ.

I lean across the table a bit and see a long list you both have been working on. I read a few male names and have to stop myself before I laugh at her lie. You pick up the list and read off the names but I can’t listen because the only thing going through my head is the slideshow of you and you and you and you and you. Thirty seven times over.

“MJ,” you start. “Can you think of anybody else? Any other guys you dated?”

She shrugs. “Maybe that Brad guy. Brad Davis. We had lunch the other day and I could see that I dented his heart a bit. Maybe I broke it and didn’t realize.”

It’s the biggest fucking lie I’ve heard but I press into her. “This Brad Davis, did he lose his shit when you guys broke it off?”

MJ hates me and anything I say has to be wrong somehow so, of course, she corrects me, “In _my_ experience, men like Brad don’t get too upset after breakups. Men like Brad have such rich lives that they don’t need to be overly emotional about their personal lives, unlike other men.”

Did this loveless bitch just call me emotional? I’m not the one who likes to take naughty photos of my supposed best friend without his permission. But, sure, _I’m_ the emotionally unstable one here. 

“So you have a lot of ex-boyfriends?” I ask and I know I should step off.

“I might be in high school, Tony,” MJ snips. “But there’s no _drama_ between me and any of my exes. We’re adults now, not seventh graders.”

“Good for you,” I pipe back and God, I want to choke her. She doesn’t have a comeback so I lean over as I stand up and kiss you. “Be safe.”

“Thanks for understanding. I really should stay here with MJ,” you say.

You walk me to the elevator and we’re yards away from her now but I can still feel MJ’s eyes shooting lasers into my skull. You kiss me and I kiss back, loving and sweet and all the things you are wrapped into one kiss. I pull back and see your face. You’re so loyal, so kind, so naive. We kiss once more to say goodnight as The Beatles sing, _‘She’s just the girl for me. And I want all the world to see we’ve met.’_

I walk out of the penthouse and ride the elevator with a new purpose. Because it’s just like you said, Peter; I’m your protector. So I must protect you from any danger. And, oh God, Peter.

It seems like you have a stalker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been so excited for this chapter for the longest time and I'm so glad I finally get to share it with you guys! If you're here from the discord server, which is totally rad, I love you Silver Ladles. Comment and leave kudos and all that jazz. What did you guys think of the twist? (;
> 
> Also! There's a Spotify playlist or this now! Here's the link: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0wmvk1KtTfSTSBniZKaW3u?si=rz3PzXDtRuKOyZEqdzfNlg Amazing cover art by the awesome thearchitectvk on Tumblr.


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